STUDIES  OF 
CONTEMPORARY 
POETS  *  > 


STUDIES    OF 
CONTEMPORARY 

POETS        .*        *       By 

MARY  C.  STURGEON 

AUTHOR  OF  "WOMEN  OF  THE  CLASSICS"  ETC. 


REVISED  AND  ENLARGED 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


IN   MEMORY   OF 

W.   H.   H. 
AND 

W.  R.  T. 


Printed  in  Grtft  Britain 
ty  Turnbullcy  S^tars 


Preface 


IN  issuing  a  new  edition  of  this  book  a  word 
may  be  said  which  perhaps  should  have 
been  said  at  first.  It  is  a  study  of  Con- 
temporary Poetry  using  the  word  contemporary  in 
its  full  sense — that  is  to  say,  poetry  which  is  of  our 
time  not  alone  in  the  mere  date  of  its  appearance, 
but  in  its  spirit  and  form  ;  poetry  which,  for  good 
or  evil,  draws  its  breath  from  the  more  vital  forces 
of  its  age. 

That  is  not  to  make  any  absolute  claim  for  the 
poets  in  this  group,  either  as  to  their  art  or  thought ; 
nor  to  try  to  enthrone  mere  modernity.  Still  less 
would  one  attempt  to  appraise  the  poets  relatively 
to  each  other  or  to  the  poets  of  earlier  times.  One 
sees  simply  that,  despite  faults,  their  work  has  much 
beauty  and  deep  significance. 

It  follows  from  the  plan  of  the  work  that  a  good 
deal  of  poetry  which  is  being  written  contem- 
poraneously is  necessarily  excluded,  as,  for  one 
example  only,  that  of  Sir  William  Watson.  The 
plan  also  explains  why,  in  1914,  when  the  first 
edition  was  written,  the  greater  figures  of  the 
group  which  is  now  added  (and  which  is  placed, 
for  convenience,  at  the  end  of  this  volume) 
were  not  then  included.  Neither  Mr  Hardy  nor 

s 

438744 


'Poets 

Mr  Yeats  were  producing  poetry  at  that  time, 
but  both  have  since  published  volumes  which 
are  different  in  character  from  their  previous  work 
and  which  are  clearly  signed  of  the  new  spirit ;  and 
the  most  exciting  work  of  Michael  Field  did  not 
appear  till  quite  recently. 

It  was  my  belief  when,  before  the  War,  this  book 
was  first  planned,  that  a  renaissance  of  poetry  was 
quietly  coming  ;  and  one  wished  to  serve,  however 
humbly,  the  travail  of  that  event.  It  appeared 
that  an  Age  of  Minstrels  had  dawned  and  was 
gathering  power  ;  and  I  looked  for  that  minstrel 
age  to  prepare  the  way  for  the  great  poet,  and 
eventually  to  bring  him  forth.  Then  came  the 
War,  when  hope  of  all  kinds  sickened  ;  and  as  the 
storm  swept  away  one  after  another  of  the  singers, 
one  trembled  for  poetry.  But,  the  immense  night 
now  over,  one  peeps  out  again  and  is  rejoiced  to 
see  that  the  young  upspringing  spirit  of  poetry  is 
not  destroyed.  By  some  miracle  it  is  thriving 

lustily. 

MARY  C.  STURGEON 
December  1919 


Acknowledgment 

THE    author    begs    to    offer   warm    thanks 
to   the  following  poets  and   their  pub- 
lishers  for    the    use  of    the    quotations 
given  in  these  studies  : 

Mr  Masefield,  Anna  Wickham,  "  John  Presland  " 
(Mrs  Skelton),  and  Anna  Bunston  (Mrs  de  Bary)  ; 
Mr  John  Lane  for  the  work  of  Mr  Abercrombie, 
Mrs  Woods,  Olive  Custance,  and  Helen  Parry  Eden  ; 
Messrs  Sidgwick  and  Jackson  for  the  work  of  Miss 
Macaulay,  Rupert  Brooke  and  Mr  John  Drinkwater  ; 
Mr  A.  C.  Fifield  and  Mr  Elkin  Mathews  for  the 
work  of  Mr  W.  H.  Davies ;  Mr  A.  H.  Bullen  for  the 
work  of  Mr  W.  B.  Yeats,  from  the  Collected,  Works, 
published  by  the  Shakespeare  Head  Press ;  Mr 
T.  Fisher  Unwin  for  "  The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree," 
from  Poems,  by  W.  B.  Yeats ;  Messrs  Constable  for 
the  work  of  Mr  De  la  Mare  ;  Mr  Elkin  Mathews, 
New  Numbers,  and  the  Samurai  Press  for  the  work 
of  Mr  W.  W.  Gibson  ;  the  Poetry  Bookshop  for 
the  work  of  Mr  Hodgson  ;  Messrs  Max  Goschen, 
Ltd.,  for  the  work  of  Mr  Ford  Madox  Hueffer  ; 
Mr  Seeker  for  the  work  of  Mr  J.  C.  Squire ; 
Messrs  Maunsel  and  Co.,  Ltd.,  for  the  work 
of  the  members  of  "  An  Irish  Group  "  and  of  Mr 
Stephens ;  the  Samurai  Press  and  the  Poetry  Book- 

7 


;:.     Contemporary    'Poets 

shot)  for  ^  the  work  of  Mr  Monro ;  Mr  William 
Heinemann  for  the  work  of  Mrs  Naidu  ;  Messrs 
G.  Allen  and  Unwin,  Ltd.,  for  the  work  of  Miss 
Margaret  M.  Radford  ;  Messrs  Macmillan  and  Co. 
for  the  work  of  Mr  Thomas  Hardy  ;  Mr  Sturge 
Moore,  Mr  Eveleigh  Nash,  and  the  Poetry  Bookshop 
for  the  work  of  Michael  Field. 

Thanks  are  also  due  to  The  Englishwoman  for 
permission  to  reprint  the  chapter  on  "  Contem- 
porary Women  Poets,"  and  the  author  wishes  to 
acknowledge  especially  the  kind  help  she  received 
from  Miss  Alida  Klementaski  in  preparing  the 
Bibliography. 


Contents 


LASCELLES  ABERCROMBIE 
RUPERT  BROOKE 
WILLIAM  H.  DAVIES 
'WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 
WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 
RALPH  HODGSON 
FORD  MADOX  HUEFFER 
AN  IRISH  GROUP 
ROSE  MACAULAY 

•  JOHN  MASEFIELD 
HAROLD  MONRO 
SAROJINI  NAIDU 

JOHN  PRESLAND  (GLADYS  SKELTON) 

JAMES  STEPHENS 

MARGARET  L.  WOODS 

JOHN  DRINKWATER 

MICHAEL  FIELD  (KATHARINE  H.  BRADLEY 

AND  EDITH  E.  COOPER 
THOMAS  HARDY 
J.  C.  SQUIRE 
CONTEMPORARY  WOMEN  POETS 

-  W.  B.  YEATS 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 


PACK 
II 

36 
53 

7* 
8? 

108 

122 

137 

181 
197 
217 
235 
248 
282 
301 
327 

347 
368 
381 
396 

419 
433 


Lascelles  Abercrombie 

IN  the  sweet  chorus  of  modern  poetry  one  may 
hear  a  strange  new  harmony.  It  is  the  life 
of  our  time,  evoking  its  own  music  :  con- 
straining the  poetic  spirit  to  utter  its  own  message. 
The  peculiar  beauty  of  contemporary  poetry,  with 
its  fresh  and  varied  charm,  grows  from  that ;  and 
in  that,  too,  its  vitality  is  assured.  Its  art  has 
the  deep  sanction  of  loyalty :  its  loyalty  draws 
inspiration  from  the  living  source. 

There  is  a  fair  company  of  these  new  singers ; 
and  it  would  seem  that  there  should  be  large  hope 
for  a  generation,  whether  in  its  life  or  letters, 
which  can  find  such  expression.  Listening  care- 
fully, however,  some  notes  ring  clearer,  stronger, 
or  more  significant  than  others ;  and  of  these  the 
voice  of  Mr  Abercrombie  appears  to  carry  the 
fullest  utterance.  It  is  therefore  a  happy  chance 
that  the  name  which  stands  first  here,  under  a  quite 
arbitrary  arrangement,  has  a  natural  right  to  be  put 
at  the  head  of  a  group  of  the  younger  moderns. 

But  that  is  not  an  implicit  denial  to  those  others 
of  fidelity  to  their  time.  It  is  a  question  of  degree 
and  of  range.  Every  poet  in  this  band  will  be  found 
to  represent  some  aspect  of  our  complex  life — its 
awakened  social  conscience  or  its  frank  joy  in  the 

II 


Contemporary  T*oets 

world  of  sense:  its  mysticism  or  its  repudiation 
of  dogma,  in  art  as  in  religion :  its  mistrust  of 
materialism  or  keen  perception  of  reality :  its 
worship  of  the  future,  or  assimilation  of  the  heritage 
of  the  past  to  its  own  ideals :  its  lyrical  delight 
in  life  or  dramatic  re-creation  of  it :  its  insistence 
upon  the  essential  poetry  of  common  things,  or  its 
discovery  of  rare  new  values  in  experience  and 
expression. 

This  poetry  frequently  catches  one  or  another 
of  those  elements,  and  crystallizes  it  out  of  a  mere 
welter  into  definite  form  and  recognizable  beauty. 
But  the  claim  for  Mr  Abercrombie  is  that  he  has 
drawn  upon  them  more  •  largely :  that  he  has  made 
a  wider  synthesis :  that  his  work  has  a  unity  more 
comprehensive  and  complete.  It  is  in  virtue  of 
this  that  he  may  be  said  to  represent  his  age  so  fully  ; 
but  that  is  neither  to  accuse  him  of  shouting  with 
the  crowd,  nor  to  lay  on  the  man  in  the  street  the 
burden  of  the  poet's  idealism.  He  is,  indeed,  in  a 
deeper  sense  than  politics  could  make  him,  a 
democrat:  perhaps  that  inheres  in  the  poetic 
temperament  under  its  shyness.  But  intellectu- 
ality and  vision,  a  keen  spirit  and  a  sensuous  equip- 
ment at  once  delicate  and  bountiful,  are  not  to  be 
leashed  to  the  common  pace.  That  is  a  truism,  of 
course  :  so  often  it  seems  the  destiny  of  the  poet 

12 


Las  cell  es    Abercrombie 

to  be  at  one  with  the  people  and  yet  above  them. 
But  it  needs  repetition  here,  because  it  applies 
with  unusual  force.  This  is  a  poet  whose  instinct 
binds  him  inescapably  to  his  kind,  even  when  his 
intellect  is  soaring  where  it  is  sometimes  hard  to 
follow. 

One  is  right,  perhaps,  in  believing  that  this 
affinity  with  his  time  is  instinctive,  for  it  reveals 
itself  in  many  ways,  subtler  or  more  obvious, 
through  all  his  work.  As  forthright  avowal  it 
naturally  occurs  most  in  his  earlier  poems.  There 
is,  for  example,  the  humanitarianism  of  the  fine 
"  Indignation "  ode  in  his  first  volume,  called 
Interludes  and  Poems.  This  is  an  invocation  of 
righteous  anger  against  the  deplorable  conditions 
of  the  workers'  lives.  A  fierce  impulse  drives 
through  the  ode,  in  music  that  is  sometimes 
troubled  by  its  own  vehemence. 

Wilt  thou  not  come  again,  thou  godly  sword, 

Into  the  Spirit 's  hands  ? 
•  .  .  •  • 

Against  our  ugly  wickedness, 
Against  our  wanton  dealing  of  distress, 
The  forced  defilement  of  humanity, 

And  shall  there  be  no  end  to  life's  expense 
In  mills  and  yards  and  factories, 

13 


Contemporary  Poets 

With  no  more  recompense 
Than  sleep  in  warrens  and  low  styes, 

And  undelighted  food  ? 

Shall  still  our  ravenous  and  unhandsome  mood 
Make  men  poor  and  keep  them  poor  ? — 

In  the  same  volume  there  is  a  passage  which  may 
be  said  to  present  the  obverse  of  this  idea.  It 
occurs  in  an  interlude  called  "  An  Escape,"  and  is 
only  incidental  to  the  main  theme,  which  is  much 
more  abstract  than  that  of  the  ode.  A  young 
poet,  Idwal,  has  withdrawn  from  the  society  of  his 
friends,  to  meditate  about  life  among  the  hills.  All 
the  winter  long  he  has  kept  in  solitude,  his  spirit 
seeking  for  mastery  over  material  things.  As  the 
spring  dawns  he  is  on  the  verge  of  triumph,  and 
the  soul  is  about  to  put  off  for  ever  its  veil  of  sense, 
when  news  reaches  him  from  the  outer  world.  His 
little  house,  from  which  he  has  been  absent  so  long, 
has  been  broken  into,  and  robbed,  by  a  tramp. 
The  friend  who  comes  to  tell  about  it  ends  his  tale 
by  a  word  of  sympathy — "  I'm  sorry  for  you  " — 
and  Idwal  replies : 

It's  sorry  I  am  for  that  perverted  tramp. 
As  having  gone  from  being  the  earth's  friend, 
Whom  she  would  have  at  all  her  private  treats. 
Now  with  the  foolery  called  possession  he 
Has  dirtied  his  own  freedom,  cozen'd  all 

14 


Lascel/es  Abercrombie 

His  hearing  with  the  lies  of  ownership. 

The  earth  may  call  to  him  in  vain  henceforth, 

He's  got  a  step-dame  now,  his  Goods.  .  .  . 

Evidence  less  direct  but  equally  strong  is  visible 
in  the  later  work.  It  lies  at  the  root  of  the 
tragedy  of  Deborah,  a  heroine  drawn  from  fisher- 
folk,  who  in  the  extremity  of  fear  for  her  lover's 
life  cries : 

O  but  my  heart  is  dying  in  me,  waiting  : 


For  us,  with  lives  so  hazardous,  to  love 
Is  like  a  poor  girl's  game  of  being  a  queen. 

And  it  is  found  again,  gathering  materials  for  the 
play  called  The  End  of  the  World  out  of  the  lives  of 
poor  and  simple  people.  Here  the  impulse  is  clear 
enough,  but  sometimes  it  takes  a  subtler  form,  and 
then  it  occasionally  betrays  the  poet  into  a  solecism. 
For  his  sense  of  the  unity  of  the  race  is  so  strong 
that  natural  distinctions  sometimes  go  the  way 
of  artificial  ones.  He  has  so  completely  identified 
himself  with  humanity,  and  for  preference  with  the 
lowly  in  mind  and  estate,  that  he  has  not  seldom 
endowed  a  humble  personality  with  his  own  large 
gifts.  Thus  you  find  Deborah  using  this  magnificent 
plea  for  her  sweetheart's  life  : 

15 


Contemporary   ^Poets 

.  .  .  there's  something  sacred  about  lovers. 
•  •  •  •  • 

For  there  is  wondrous  more  than  the  joy  of  life 

In  lovers  ;  there's  in  them  God  Himself 

Taking  great  joy  to  love  the  life  He  made  : 

We  are  God's  desires  more  than  our  own,  we  lovers, 

You  dare  not  injure  God  ! 

Thus,  too,  a  working  wainwright  suddenly  startled 
into  consciousness  of  the  purpose  of  the  life-force 
muses : 

Why  was  I  like  a  man  sworn  to  a  thing 

Working  to  have  my  wains  in  every  curve, 

Ay,  every  tenon,  right  and  as  they  should  be  ? 

Not  for  myself,  not  even  for  those  wains  : 

But  to  keep  in  me  living  at  its  best 

The  skill  that  must  go  forward  and  shape  the  world, 

Helping  it  on  to  make  some  masterpiece. 

And  with  the  same  largesse  a  fiddling  vagabond, 
old  and  blind,  thief,  liar,  and  seducer,  is  made  to 
utter  a  lyric  ecstasy  on  the  words  which  are  the 
poet's  instrument : 

Words  :  they  are  messengers  from  out  God's  heart 
Intimate  with  him  ;  through  his  deed  they  go, 
This  passion  of  him  called  the  world,  approving 
All  of  fierce  gladness  in  it,  bidding  leap 
To  a  yet  higher  rapture  ere  it  sink. 

.  .  .  There  be 

16 


Lasce/les  Abercrombie 

Who  hold  words  made  of  thought.     But  as  stars  slide 
Through  air,  so  words,  bright  aliens,  slide  through 

thought, 
Leaving  a  kindled  way. 

Now,  since  Synge  has  shown  us  that  the  poetry 
in  the  peasant  heart  docs  utter  itself  spontaneously, 
in  fitting  language,  we  must  be  careful  how  we 
deny,  even  to  these  peasants  who  are  not  Celts,  a 
natural  power  of  poetic  expression.  But  there  is  a 
difference.  That  spontaneous  poetry  of  simple 
folk  which  is  caught  for  us  in  The  Playboy  of  the 
Western  World  or  The  Well  of  the  Saints,  is  generally 
a  lyric  utterance  springing  directly  out  of  emotion. 
It  is  not,  as  here,  the  result  of  a  mental  process, 
operating  amongst  ideas  and  based  on  knowledge 
which  the  peasant  is  unlikely  to  possess.  One  may 
be  justified,  therefore,  in  a  show  of  protest  at  the 
incongruity ;  we  feel  that  such  people  do  not  talk 
like  that.  The  poet  has  transferred  to  them  too 
much  of  his  own  intellectuality.  Yet  it  will  prob- 
ably be  a  feeble  protest,  proportionate  to  the  degree 
that  we  are  disturbed  by  it,  which  is  practically 
not  at  all.  For  as  these  people  speak,  we  are 
convinced  of  their  reality  :  they  live  and  move 
before  us.  And  when  we  consider  their  complete 
and  robust  individuality,  it  would  appear  that 
the  poet's  method  is  vindicated  by  the  dramatic 

B  17 


Contemporary   "Poefs 

force  of  the  presentment.  It  needs  no  other 
vindication,  and  is  no  doubt  a  reasoned  process. 
For  Mr  Abercrombie  makes  no  line  of  separation 
between  thought  and  emotion  ;  and  having  entered 
by  imagination  into  the  hearts  of  his  people,  he 
might  claim  to  be  merely  interpreting  them — 
making  conscious  and  vocal  that  which  was  already 
in  existence  there,  however  obscurely.  There  is  a 
hint  of  this  at  a  point  in  The  End  of  the  World  where 
one  of  the  men  says  that  he  had  felt  a  certain  thought 
go  through  his  mind — "  though  'twas  a  thing  of 
such  a  flight  I  could  not  read  its  colour."  And  in 
this  way  Deborah,  being  a  human  soul  of  full 
stature,  sound  of  mind  and  body  and  all  her  being 
flooded  with  emotion,  would  be  capable  of  feeling 
the  complex  thought  attributed  to  her,  even  if  no 
single  strand  of  its  texture  had  ever  been  clear  in 
her  mind.  While  as  to  the  fiddling  lyrist,  rogue 
and  poet,  one  sees  no  reason  why  the  whole  argument 
should  not  be  closed  by  a  gesture  in  the  direction 
of  Heine  or  Villon. 

We  turn  now  to  the  content  of  thought  in  Mr 
Abercrombie's  poetry — an  aspect  of  his  genius 
to  be  approached  with  diffidence  by  a  writer 
conscious  of  limitations.  For  though  we  believed 
we  saw  that  his  affinity  with  the  democratic 
spirit  of  his  age  is  instinctive,  deeply  rooted 
18 


Lascelles  Abercrombie 

and  persistent,  his  genius  is  by  no  means  ruled 
by  instinct.  It  is  intellectual  to  an  extreme 
degree,  moving  easily  in  abstract  thought  and 
apparently  trained  in  philosophic  speculation.  In- 
deed, his  speculative  tendency  had  gone  as  far  as 
appeared  to  be  legitimate  in  poetry,  when  he 
wisely  chose  another  medium  for  it  in  the  volume 
of  prose  Dialogues  published  in  1913. 

It  must  not  be  gathered  from  this,  however, 
that  the  philosophic  pieces  are  dull  or  difficult 
reading.  On  the  contrary,  they  are  frequently 
cast  into  the  form  of  a  story  with  a  dramatic 
basis  ;  and  although  the  torrent  of  thought  some- 
times keeps  the  mind  astretch  to  follow  it,  it  would 
be  hard  to  discover  a  single  obscure  line.  An 
astonishing  combination  of  qualities  has  gone  to 
produce  this  result :  subtlety  with  vigour,  deli- 
cacy with  strength,  and  loftiness  with  simplicity. 
Things  elusive  and  immaterial  are  caught  and  fixed 
in  vivid  imagery  ;  and  often  charged  with  poignant 
human  interest.  No  other  of  the  younger  poets 
expresses  thought  so  abstract  with  such  force,  or 
describes  the  adventures  of  the  voyaging  soul  with 
such  clarity.  It  is  a  combination  which  suggests  high 
harmony  in  the  development  of  sense  and  spirit  :  it 
explains  how  it  happens  that  a  rapture  of  delight 
in  the  physical  world  can  coexist  with  spiritual 

'9 


Contemporary    'Poets 

exaltation  :  while  it  hints  a  reason  for  the  poet's 
preoccupation  with  the  duality  in  human  life,  and 
his  vision  of  an  ultimate  union  of  the  rival  powers. 

We  may  note  in  passing  how  this  reacts  upon  the 
form  of  his  work.  It  has  created  a  unique  vocabu- 
lary (enriched  from  many  sources  but  derived  from 
no  single  one),  which  is  nervous,  flexible,  vigorous, 
impassioned  :  assimilating  to  its  grave  beauty  not 
only  the  wealth  and  dignity  of  our  language,  but 
words  homely,  colloquial,  and  quaint. 

Again,  rather  curiously,  this  complex  thought 
has  tended  toward  the  dramatic  form.  At  first 
glance  that  form  would  seem  to  be  unsuitable  for 
the  expression  of  a  prevailing  reflectiveness.  Yet 
here  is  a  poet  whose  dominant  theme  might  be 
defined,  tritely,  as  the  development  of  the  soul ; 
and  he  hardly  ever  writes  in  any  other  way. 

The  fact  sends  us  back  to  the  contrast  with 
the  Victorians.  The  representative  poet  then, 
musing  about  life  and  death  and  the  evolution 
of  the  soul,  felt  himself  impelled  to  the  elegiac 
form.  But  the  nature  of  the  thought  itself  has 
changed.  The  representative  poet  now  does  not 
stand  and  lament,  however  exquisitely,  because 
reality  has  shattered  dogma  ;  neither  does  he  try 
to  create  an  epic  out  of  the  incredible  theme  of 
a  perfect  soul.  He  accepts  reality ;  and  then  he 
20 


Lascelles  Abercrombie 

perceives  that  the  perfect  soul  is  incredible,  besides 
being  poor  material  for  his  art.  But  on  the  other 
hand,  while  he  takes  care  to  seize  and  hold  fast 
truth :  while  it  does  not  occur  to  him  to  mourn 
that  she  is  implacable :  he  resolutely  denies  to 
phenomena,  the  appearance  of  things,  the  whole  of 
truth.  That  is  to  say,  he  has  transcended  at  once 
the  despair  of  the  Victorians  and  their  materialism. 
He  has  banished  their  lyric  grief  for  a  dead  past, 
along  with  their  scientific  and  religious  dogmas. 
That  was  a  bit  of  iconoclasm  imperatively  demanded 
of  him  by  his  own  soul ;  but  from  the  fact  that 
he  is  a  poet,  it  is  denied  to  him  to  find  final  satis- 
faction in  the  region  of  sense  and  consciousness. 

Thus  there  arises  a  duality,  and  a  sense  of  con- 
flict, which  would  account  for  the  manner  of  this 
poet's  expression,  without  the  need  to  refer  it  to 
the  general  tendency  of  modern  poetry  toward 
the  dramatic  form.  Doubtless,  however,  that  also 
has  been  an  influence,  for  the  virility  of  his  genius 
and  the  positive  strain  in  his  philosophy  would  lead 
that  way. 

One  can  hardly  say  that  there  are  perceptible 
stages  in  Mr  Abercrombie's  thought.  He  appears 
to  be  one  of  the  few  poets  with  no  crudities  to 
repent,  either  artistic  or  philosophic.  Yet  there 
is  a  poem  in  his  first  volume,  a  morality  called 

21 


Contemporary   T^oets 

"  The  New  God  "  ;  and  there  is  another  piece  called 
"The  Sale  of  St  Thomas,"  first  published  in  1911, 
which  are  relatively  simple.  Here  he  is  content 
to  take  material  that  is  traditional,  both  to  poetry 
and  religion,  and  infuse  into  it  so  much  of  modern 
significance  as  it  will  carry.  The  first  re-tells  the 
mediaeval  legend  of  a  girl  changed  by  God  into  his 
own  likeness  in  order  to  save  her  from  violence. 
There  is,  apt  to  our  present  study,  but  too  long  to 
give  in  full,  at  least  one  passage  that  is  magnificent 
in  conception  and  imagery  alike.  It  is  the  voice  of 
God,  answering  the  girl's  prayer  that  she  may  be 
saved  by  the  destruction  of  her  beauty.  The  voice 
declares  that  the  petition  is  sweet  and  shall  be  granted, 
that  he  will  quit  the  business  of  the  universe,  that 
he  will  "  put  off  the  nature  of  the  world,"  and  become 

God,  when  all  the  multitudinous  flow 

Of  Being  sets  backward  to  Him  ;   God,  when  He 

Is  only  glory.  .  .  . 

The  "  Sale  of  St  Thomas "  also  treats  a  legend, 
with  originality  and  power.  This  remarkable  poem 
is  already  well  known :  but  one  may  at  least  call 
attention  to  the  fitness  and  dignity  with  which  the 
poet  has  placed  the  modern  gospel  upon  the  lips 
of  the  Christ.  Thomas  has  been  intercepted  by 
his  master,  as  he  is  about  to  run  away  for  the  second 
time  from  his  mission  to  India. 

22 


Lascelles  Abercrombie 

Now,  Thomas,  know  thy  sin.     It  was  not  fear  ; 

Easily  may  a  man  crouch  down  for  fear, 

And  yet  rise  up  on  firmer  knees,  and  face 

The  hailing  storm  of  the  world  with  graver  courage. 

But  prudence,  prudence  is  the  deadly  sin, 

And  one  that  groweth  deep  into  a  life, 

With  hardening  roots  that  clutch  about  the  breast. 

For  this  refuses  faith  in  the  unknown  powers 

Within  man's  nature  ;  shrewdly  bringeth  all 

Their  inspiration  of  strange  eagerness 

To  a  judgment  bought  by  safe  experience  ; 

Narrows  desire  into  the  scope  of  thought. 

But  it  is  written  in  the  heart  of  man, 

Thou  shalt  no  larger  be  than  thy  desire. 

Thou  must  not  therefore  stoop  thy  spirit's  sight 

To  pore  only  within  the  candle-gleam 

Of  conscious  wit  and  reasonable  brain  ; 

But  send  desire  often  forth  to  scan 

The  immense  night  which  is  thy  greater  soul ; 

Knowing  the  possible,  see  thou  try  beyond  it 

Into  impossible  things,  unlikely  ends  ; 

And  thou  shalt  find  thy  knowledgeable  desire 

Grow  large  as  all  the  regions  of  thy  soul, 

Whose  firmament  doth  cover  the  whole  of  Being, 

And  of  created  purpose  reach  the  ends. 

Perhaps  the  thought  here  is  not  so  simple  as  trie 
pellucid  expression  makes  it  to  appear :  yet  the 
conventional  material  on  which  the  poet  is  working 
restrains  it  to  at  least  relative  simplicity.  When, 

23 


Contemporary   *Poets 

however,  his  inspiration  is  moving  quite  freely, 
unhampered  by  tradition  either  of  technique  or  of 
theme,  the  result  is  more  complex  and  more  charac- 
teristic. 

The  tragedy  called  "  Blind  ",  in  his  first  volume, 
is  an  example.  The  plot  of  this  dramatic  piece 
is  probably  unique.  If  one  gave  the  bald  outline 
of  it,  it  might  seem  to  be  merely  a  story  of  crude 
revenge.  It  is  concerned  with  rude  and  outlawed 
people :  it  springs  out  of  elemental  passions — fierce 
love  turned  to  long  implacable  hatred,  and  then 
reverting  to  tenderness  and  pity  and  overwhelming 
remorse.  And  yet  the  three  characters  who  enact 
this  little  tragedy  are  very  subtly  studied — the 
woman  who  has  reared  her  idiot  son  to  be  the 
weapon  to  avenge  her  wrongs  upon  the  father 
he  has  never  known  ;  the  blind  son  himself  ;  and 
his  father,  the  same  fiddling  tramp  whom  we 
have  already  noted.  There  are  points  in  the 
delineation  of  all  three  which  are  quite  brilliantly 
imagined  :  the  change  in  the  woman  when  she 
meets  at  last  the  human  wreck  who  had  once 
been  her  handsome  lover  ;  the  idiot  youth  hunger- 
ing to  express  the  beauty  which  is  revealed  to 
him,  through  touch,  in  a  child's  golden  hair,  the 
warmth  of  fire,  the  mysterious  presence  of  the 
dark: 
24 


Lascelles  Abercrombte 

....  like  a  wing's  shelter  bending  down. 
I've  often  thought,  if  I  were  tall  enough 
And  reacht  my  hand  up,  I  should  touch  the  soft 
Spread  feathers  of  the  resting  flight  of  him 
Who  covers  us  with  night,  so  near  he  seems 
Stooping  and  holding  shadow  over  us, 
Roofing  the  air  with  wings.     It's  plain  to  feel 
Some  large  thing's  near,  and  being  good  to  us. 

But,  above  all,  there  is  the  character  of  the  fiddler. 
At  first  glance,  the  phenomenon  looks  common 
enough  and  all  its  meaning  obvious.  "  A  wastrel  " 
one  would  say,  glibly  defining  the  phenomenon  ;  and 
add  "  a  drunken  wastrel,"  believing  that  we  had 
explained  it.  But  the  poet  sees  further,  apprehends 
more  and  understands  better.  Drunken  indeed, 
but  an  intoxication  older  and  more  divine  than  that 
of  brandy  began  the  business  ;  and  much  brandy 
had  not  quenched  the  elder  fire.  It  flamed  in  him 
still,  mostly  a  sinister  glow,  fed  from  his  bad  and 
sorrowful  past,  but  leaping  on  occasion  to  clear 
radiance,  as  in  the  talk  with  his  unknown  son,  when 
some  magnetic  influence  drew  the  two  blind  men 
together  and  made  them  friends  before  they  had 
any  knowledge  of  relationship.  Of  the  many  finer 
touches  in  this  poem,  none  is  more  delicate  and 
none  more  moving  than  the  suggestion  of  uncon- 
scious affinity  between  these  two :  the  idiot, 

25 


Contemporary   'Poets 

with  his  half-awake  mind,  groping  amidst  shadows 
of  ideas  which  to  the  older  man  are  quick  with 
inspiration. 

SON.  What  are  words  ? 

TRAMP.     God's  love  !     Here's  a  man  after  my  own 

heart  ; 
We  must  be  brothers,  lad. 

But  besides  his  dramatic  and  psychological  in- 
terest, the  fiddler  is  important  because  he  seems  to 
represent  the  poet's  philosophy  in  its  brief  icono- 
clastic phase.  For  we  find  placed  in  his  lips  a 
destructive  satire  of  the  old  theological  doctrine 
of  Good  and  Evil.  The  passage  is  too  long  to  quote, 
and  it  would  be  unfair  to  mutilate  it.  Incidentally 
we  may  note,  however,  the  keen  salt  humour  of  it, 
and  how  that  quality  establishes  the  breadth  and 
sanity  of  the  poet's  outlook.  The  point  of  peculiar 
interest  at  the  moment  is  that  this  phase  passes 
with  the  particular  poem — an  early  one  ;  and  thence- 
forward it  is  replaced  by  more  constructive  thought. 
We  come  to  "  The  Fool's  Adventure,"  for  instance, 
and  find  the  "Seeker"  travelling  through  all  the 
regions  of  mind  and  spirit  to  find  God,  and  the 
nature  and  cause  of  sin.  His  quest  brings  him  first 
to  the  Self  of  the  World,  and  he  believes  that  this 
is  God.  But  the  Sage  corrects  him : 

26 


Lascelles  Abercrombie 

.  .  .  Poor  fool, 

And  didst  thou  think  this  present  sensible  world 
Was  God  ?  ... 

•  •  .  •  • 

It  is  a  name,  .... 

The  name  Lord  God  chooses  to  go  by,  made 
In  languages  of  stars  and  heavens  and  life. 

And  when,  finally,  he  has  won  through  to  a  certain 
palace  at  the  "  verge  of  things,"  he  cries  his  question 
to  the  unseen  king  within. 

SEEKER.     Then  thou  art  God  ? 

WITHIN.  Ay,  many  call  me  so. 

And  yet,  though  words  were  never  large  enough 

To  take  me  made,  I  have  a  better  name. 

SEEKER.     Then  truly,  who  art  thou  ? 

WITHIN.  I  am  Thy  Self. 

Another  aspect  of  the  same  idea,  caught  in  a  more 
lyrical  mood,  will  be  found  in  the  poem  called 
"The  Trance."  The  poet  is  standing  upon  a  hill- 
side alone  at  night,  watching  the  "  continual 
stars  "  and  overawed  by  the  vastness  and  "  fixt 
law  "  of  the  universe.  Then,  in  a  sudden  revelation 
of  perhaps  a  fraction  of  a  minute : 

I  was  exalted  above  surety 

And  out  of  time  did  fall. 

As  from  a  slander  that  did  long  distress, 

A  sudden  justice  vindicated  me 

From  the  customary  wrong  of  Great  and  Small. 

27 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

I  stood  outside  the  burning  rims  of  place, 
Outside  that  corner,  consciousness. 
Then  was  I  not  in  the  midst  of  thee 
Lord  God  ? 

That,  however,  is  the  triumphant  ecstasy  of  a 
moment.  More  often  he  is  preoccupied  with  the 
duality  in  human  nature,  and  in  "An  Escape"  there 
is  a  fine  simile  of  the  struggle  : 

Desire  of  infinite  things,  desire  of  finite. 

.  .  .  'tis  the  wrestle  of  the  twain  makes  man. 

— As  two  young  winds,  schooled  'mong  the  slopes  and 

caves 

Of  rival  hills  that  each  to  other  look 
Across  a  sunken  tarn,  on  a  still  day 
Run  forth  from  their  sundered  nurseries,  and  meet 
In  the  middle  air.  .  .  . 

And  when  they  close,  their  struggle  is  called  Man, 
Distressing  with  his  strife  and  flurry  the  bland 
Pool  of  existence,  that  lay  quiet  before 
Holding  the  calm  watch  of  Eternity. 

The  incidence  of  finite  and  infinite  is  felt  with 
equal  force  :  sense  is  as  powerful  as  spirit,  and  therein 
of  course  lives  the  keenness  of  the  strife.  In  "Soul 
and  Body  "  there  is  a  passage — only  one  of  many, 
however — in  which  the  rapture  of  sensuous  beauty 
is  expressed.  The  spirit  is  imagined  to  be  just 
ready  to  put  off  sense,  to  be  for  ever  caught  out  of 
28 


Lasce/les  Abercrombie 

"  that  corner,  consciousness."     And  the  body  re- 
minds it : 

Thou  wilt  miss  the  wonder  I  have  made  for  thee 

Of  this  dear  world  with  my  fashioning  senses, 

The  blue,  the  fragrance,  the  singing,  and  the  green. 

Great  spaces  of  grassy  land,  and  all  the  air 

One  quiet,  the  sun  taking  golden  ease 

Upon  an  afternoon  : 

Tall  hills  that  stand  in  weather-blinded  trances 

As  if  they  heard,  drawn  upward  and  held  there, 

Some  god's  eternal  tune  ; 

We  may  take  our  last  illustration  of  this  subject 
from  a  passage  at  the  end  of  the  volume  called 
Emblems  of  Love.  It  is  from  a  poem  so  rich  in 
beauty  and  so  closely  woven,  that  to  quote  from  it 
is  almost  inevitably  to  do  the  author  an  injustice. 
But  the  same  may  be  said  about  the  whole  book : 
while  single  poems  from  it  will  disclose  high  in- 
dividual value,  both  as  art  and  philosophy,  their 
whole  effect  and  meaning  can  only  be  completely 
seized  by  reading  them  as  a  sequence,  and  in  the 
light  of  the  conception  to  which  they  all  con- 
tribute. 

The  book  is  designed  to  show,  in  three  great 
movements  representing  birth,  growth,  and  per- 
fection, the  evolution  of  the  human  spirit  in  the 

29 


Contemporary   Toets 

world.  The  spirit,  which  is  here  synonymous  with 
love,  is  traced  from  the  instant  which  is  chosen  to 
mark  its  birth  (the  awakening  sense  of  beauty  in 
primitive  man),  through  its  manifold  states  of  excess 
and  defect,  up  to  a  transcendent  union  which  draws 
the  dual  powers  into  a  single  ecstasy.  The  great- 
ness of  the  central  theme  is  matched  by  the  dignity 
of  its  presentment,  while  the  dramatic  form  in 
which  it  is  embodied  saves  it  from  mere  abstraction. 
We  see  the  dawn  of  the  soul  in  the  wolf-hunter, 
suddenly  perceiving  beauty  in  nature  and  in  women : 
the  vindication  of  the  soul  by  Vashti,  magnificently 
daring  to  prove  that  it  is  no  mere  vassal  to  beauty : 
and  the  perfecting  of  the  soul  in  the  terrible 
paradox  of  Judith's  virginity.  But  it  is  in  one 
of  the  closing  pieces,  called  fittingly  "The  Eternal 
Wedding,"  that  the  poet  attains  the  summit  of  his 
thought  along  these  lines  ;  prefiguring  the  ultimate 
union  of  the  conflicting  powers  of  life  in  one  perfect 
rapture. 

...  I  have 

Golden  within  me  the  whole  fate  of  man  : 
That  every  flesh  and  soul  belongs  to  one 
Continual  joy  ward  ravishment  .  .  . 
That  life  hath  highest  gone  which  hath  most  joy. 
For  like  great  wings  forcefully  smiting  air 
And  driving  it  along  in  rushing  rivers, 

30 


Lascel/es  Abercrombie 

Desire  of  joy  beats  mightily  pulsing  forward 
The  world's  one  nature.  .  .  . 

....  so  we  are  driven 
Onward  and  upward  in  a  wind  of  beauty, 
Until  man's  race  be  wielded  by  its  joy 
Into  some  high  incomparable  day, 
Where  perfectly  delight  may  know  itself,— 
No  longer  need  a  strife  to  know  itself, 
Only  by  its  prevailing  over  pain. 

That  is  the  topmost  peak  that  his  philosophy 
has  gained — for  just  so  long  as  to  give  assurance  that 
it  exists.  But  no  one  supposes  that  he  will  dwell 
there  :  it  is  altogether  too  high  :  the  atmosphere  is 
too  rare.  It  was  reached  only  by  the  concentration 
of  certain  poetical  powers,  chiefly  speculative  imagi- 
nation, which  carried  him  safely  over  the  chasms 
of  a  lower  altitude.  But  when  other  powers  are 
in  the  ascendant,  as  for  instance  in  The  End  of  the 
World:  when  he  is  recalled  to  actuality  by  that 
keen  eye  for  fact  which  is  so  rare  a  gift  to  genius 
of  this  type,  the  terror  of  those  lower  chasms  is  re- 
vealed. Here  is  one  of  the  characters  reflecting  on 
the  thought  of  the  end  of  the  world,  which  he 
believes  to  be  imminent  from  an  approaching  comet : 

Life,  the  mother  who  lets  her  children  play 
So  seriously  busy,  trade  and  craft, — 
Life  with  her  skill  of  a  million  years'  perfection 
To  make  her  heart's  delighted  glorying 

31 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

Of  sunlight,  and  of  clouds  about  the  moon, 

Spring  lighting  her  daffodils,  and  corn 

Ripening  gold  to  ruddy,  and  giant  seas, 

And  mountains  sitting  in  their  purple  clothes— 

O  life  I  am  thinking  of,  life  the  wonder, 

All  blotcht  out  by  a  brutal  thrust  of  fire 

Like  a  midge  that  a  clumsy  thumb  squashes  and  smears. 

That  passage  will  serve  to  point  the  single  com- 
ment on  technique  with  which  this  study  must 
close.  It  has  not  been  selected  for  the  purpose, 
and  therefore  is  not  the  finest  example  that  could  be 
chosen.  It  is,  however,  typical  of  the  blank-verse 
form  which  largely  prevails  in  this  poetry,  and  which, 
in  its  very  texture,  reveals  the  same  extraordinary 
combination  of  qualities  which  we  have  observed 
in  the  poet's  genius. 

We  have  already  seen  that  spiritual  vision  is  here 
united  with  intellectuality  as  lucid  as  it  is  power- 
ful :  that  the  mystic  is  also  the  humanitarian : 
that  imagination  is  balanced  by  a  good  grip  on 
reality ;  and  that  the  sense-impressions  are  fine  as 
well  as  exuberant.  We  have  seen,  too,  that  this 
diversity  and  apparent  contrast,  although  resulting 
in  an  art  of  complex  beauty,  do  not  tend  towards 
confusion  or  ob  curity.  There  has  been  a  complete 
fusion  of  the  elements,  and  the  molten  stream  that 
is  poured  for  us  is  of  glowing  clarity. 

32 


Lascelles  Abercrombie 

Exactly  the  same  feature  is  discernible  in  the  style 
of  this  verse.  Look  at  the  last  passage  for  a  moment 
and  consider  its  effect.  It  is  impossible  to  define 
in  a  single  word,  because  of  its  complexity.  The 
mind,  lingering  delightedly  over  the  metaphor  of 
life  the  mother,  is  suddenly  awed  by  the  magnitude 
of  the  idea  which  succeeds  it.  The  aesthetic  sense  is 
taken  by  the  light  and  colour  of  the  middle  lines, 
and  then,  as  if  the  breath  were  caught  on  a  half-sob, 
a  wave  of  emotion  follows,  pensive  at  first,  but 
rising  abruptly  to  a  note  that  is  as  rough  as  a  curse. 
There  are  more  shades  of  thought,  lightly  reflective 
or  glooming  with  prescience  ;  and  there  are  more 
degrees  of  emotion,  from  tenderness  to  wrath,  than 
we  have  time  to  analyze.  The  point  for  the 
moment  is  the  manner  in  which  they  are  conveyed, 
and  the  adequacy  of  the  instrument  to  convey 
them. 

The  texture  of  the  verse  itself  will  provide  evi- 
dence of  this.  Here  are  barely  a  dozen  lines  of  our 
English  heroic  verse  ;  and  they  will  be  found  to 
contain  the  maximum  of  metrical  variety.  Prob- 
ably only  two,  or  at  most  three  of  them  (it  depends 
upon  scansion,  of  course)  are  of  the  regular  iambic 
pentameter  :  that  is  to  say,  built  up  strictly  from 
the  iamb,  which  is  the  unit  of  this  form.  All  the 
others  are  varied  by  the  insertion  at  some  point 

c  33 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

in  the  line,  and  frequently  at  two  or  three  points, 
of  a  different  verse-unit,  dactyl,  anapaest,  trochee  or 
spondee ;  and  no  two  lines  are  varied  in  exactly  the 
same  way. 

But,  besides  the  range  of  the  instrument,  there 
is  the  exquisite  harmony  of  it  with  mood  or  idea. 
The  strong  down-beat  of  the  trochee  summons 
the  intellect  to  consider  a  thought :  the  dactyl 
will  follow  with  the  quick  perception  of  a  simile  : 
the  iamb  will  punctuate  rhythm :  anacrusis  will 
suggest  the  half-caught  breath  of  rising  emotion, 
and  turbulent  feeling  will  pour  through  spondee, 
dactyl,  and  anapaest.  And  so  with  the  diction. 
Just  as  we  find  a  measure  which  is  both  vigorous 
and  light,  precise  and  flexible,  easily  bending  law 
to  beauty  ;  so  in  the  language  there  is  a  correspond- 
ing union  of  strength  and  grace,  homeliness  and 
dignity.  Could  a  great  conception  be  stated  in  a 
simpler  phrase  than  that  of  the  two  first  lines  ? 

Life,  the  mother  who  lets  her  children  play 
So  seriously  busy,  trade  and  craft — 

and  yet  this  phrase,  simple  and  lucid  as  it  is,  conveys 
a  sense  of  boundless  tenderness  and  pity,  playing 
over  the  surface  of  a  deeper  irony.  Doubtless  its 
strength  and  clarity  come  from  the  fact  that  each 
word  is  of  the  common  coin  of  daily  life ;  but  its 

34 


Lascelles  Abercrombie 

atmosphere,  an  almost  infinite  suggestiveness  of 
familiar  things  brooded  over  in  a  wistful  mood, 
comes  partly  at  least  through  the  colloquial  touch. 

Mr  Abercrombie  has  no  fear  to  be  colloquial, 
when  that  is  the  proper  garment  of  his  thought, 
the  outer  symbol  of  the  inner  reality.  Nor  is  he 
the  least  afraid  of  fierce  and  ugly  words,  when 
they  are  apt.  The  last  line  of  our  passage  illus- 
trates this.  Taken  out  of  its  setting,  and  consider- 
ing merely  the  words,  one  would  count  a  poet 
rash  indeed  who  would  venture  such  a  harsh  colloca- 
tion. But  repeat  the  line  aloud,  and  its  metrical 
felicity  will  appear  at  once :  put  it  back  in  its 
setting,  as  the  culmination  of  a  wave  of  feeling  that 
has  been  gathering  strength  throughout :  remember 
the  idea  (of  beauty  annihilated  by  senseless  law  and 
blind  force),  which  has  kindled  that  emotion  ;  and 
then  we  shall  marvel  at  the  art  which  makes  the  line 
a  growl  of  impotent  rage. 

All  of  which  is  merely  to  say  that  the  spirit  of  this 
poetry  has  evolved  for  itself  a  living  body,  wearing 
its  beauty  delightedly,  rejoicing  in  its  own  vitality, 
and  unashamed  either  of  its  elemental  impulse 
or  its  transcendent  vision. 


35 


Rupert  Brooke 

Born  at  Rugby  on  August  3,  1 887  ; 
Died  at  Lemnos  on  April  23,  1915 

PROBABLY  most  English  people  who  love 
their  country  and  their  country's  greatest 
poet  have  at  some  time  taken  joy  to 
identify  the  spirit  of  the  two.  England  and 
Shakespeare  :  the  names  have  leapt  together  and 
flamed  into  union  before  the  eyes  of  many  a 
youngster  who  was  much  too  dazzled  by  the  glory 
to  see  how  and  whence  it  came.  But  returning 
from  a  festival  performance  on  some  soft  April 
midnight,  or  leaning  out  of  the  bedroom  window 
to  share  with  the  stars  and  the  wind  the  exaltation 
which  the  play  had  evoked,  the  revelation  suddenly 
shone.  And  thenceforward  April  23  was  by  some- 
thing more  than  a  coincidence  the  day  both  of 
Shakespeare  and  St  George. 

Reason  might  come  back  with  the  daylight  to 
rule  over  fancy  ;  and  the  cool  lapse  of  time  might 
remove  the  moment  far  enough  to  betray  the 
humour  of  it.  But  the  glow  never  quite  faded  ; 
or  if  it  did  it  only  gave  place  to  the  steadier  and 
clearer  light  of  conviction.  One  came  to  see  how 
the  poet,  by  reason  of  his  complete  humanity, 

36 


Rupert  Brooke 

stood  for  mankind  ;  and  how,  from  certain  sharp 
characteristics  of  our  race,  he  stood  pre-eminently 
for  English  folk.  And  coming  thence  to  the 
narrower  but  firmer  ground  of  historical  fact,  one 
saw  how  shiningly  he  represented  the  Elizabethan 
Age,  with  its  eager,  inquisitive,  and  adventurous 
spirit  ;  its  craving  to  fulfil  to  the  uttermost  a  gift 
of  glorious  and  abundant  life. 

Now  precisely  in  that  way,  though  not  of  course 
in  the  same  superlative  degree,  one  may  see  Rupert 
Brooke  standing  for  the  England  of  his  time.  And 
when  this  poet  died  at  Lemnos  on  April  23,  1915, 
those  who  knew  and  loved  his  work  must  have  felt 
the  tragic  fitness  of  the  date  with  the  event.  If  the 
gods  of  war  had  decreed  his  death,  they  had  at  least 
granted  that  he  might  pass  on  England's  day.  In 
him  indeed  was  manifested  the  poetic  spirit  of  the 
race,  warm  with  human  passion  and  sane  with 
laughter  :  soaring  on  wings  of  fire  but  nesting  always 
on  the  good  earth.  And  though  one  does  not  claim 
to  find  in  him  the  highest  point  or  the  extremest 
advance  to  which  the  thought  of  his  day  had  gone, 
he  stands  pre-eminently  for  that  day  in  the  steel- 
clear  light  of  his  gallant  spirit. 

The  title  of  Rupert  Brooke's  posthumous  book 
— 1914 — signifies  that  moment  of  English  history 
which  is  reflected  in  his  work.  He  is  the  symbol 

37 


Contemporary  'Poets 

of  that  year  in  a  double  sense.  He  represents 
the  calamitous  political  event  of  it  in  his  voluntary- 
service  to  the  State,  and  the  manner  of  his 
death.  Thus  by  the  accident  of  circumstance 
which  made  him  eminent  and  vocal,  he  serves  to 
speak  for  the  silent  millions  of  English  men  and 
women  who  splendidly  sprang  to  duty.  But  in 
his  poetry  there  is  a  closer  and  deeper  relation  to 
that  tragic  year.  /Incomplete  as  it  may  be  :  youth- 
ful and  prankish  as  some  of  it  is,  the  thought  and 
manner  of  the  time  are  imaged  there.  A  certain 
level  of  humane  culture  had  been  reached,  a  certain 
philosophy  of  life  had  been  evolved,  and  a  definite 
attitude  to  reality  taken.  Lightly  but  clearly,  these 
things  which  reflect  the  colour  of  our  civilization 
at  August  1914  are  crystallized  in  Rupert  Brooke's 
poetry  to  that  date.  But  at  that  point  the  image, 
like  the  whole  order  of  which  it  was  the  reflection, 
was  shattered  by  the  clash  of  arms  ;  and  the  few 
poems  which  he  wrote  subsequently  are  preoccupied 
with  the  spiritual  crisis  which  the  war  precipitated. 
Most  of  the  admirers  of  this  poet  have  seen  only 
in  his  last  pieces  the  singular  identity  of  his  spirit 
with  the  spirit  of  his  country.  And  that  is  so  noble 
a  concord  that  it  cannot  be  missed.  For  when 
England  plunged  into  the  greatest  war  of  history, 
she  flung  off  in  the  act  several  centuries  of  her  age. 

38 


Rupert  Brooke 

Priceless  things,  slowly  and  patiently  acquired,  went 
overboard  as  mere  impedimenta  ;  but  in  the  relapse, 
the  slipping  backward  to  an  earlier  time  and  con- 
sequent recovery  of  youth,  with  its  ardour  and 
passion,  its  recklessness  and  generosity  and  courage, 
the  optimist  saw  a  reward  for  all  that  was  lost. 
So  with  the  poetry  of  Rupert  Brooke.  Those  few 
last  sonnets,  as  it  were  the  soul  of  rejuvenated 
England,  seem  to  the  same  hopeful  eye  a  complete 
compensation,  not  only  for  the  wasted  individual 
life,  but  for  the  beauty  and  significance  of  the  age 
for  which  he  stood,  now  irrevocably  lost. 

Blow  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich  Dead  ! 
There's  none  of  these  so  lonely  and  poor  of  old, 
But,  dying,  has  made  us  rarer  gifts  than  gold. 

These  laid  the  world  away  ;   poured  out  the  red 

Sweet  wine  of  youth  ;  gave  up  the  years  to  be 
Of  work  and  joy,  and  that  unhoped  serene, 
That  men  call  age  ;  and  those  who  would  have  been, 

Their  sons,  they  gave,  their  immortality. 

Blow,  bugles,  blow  !     They  brought  us,  for  our  dearth, 
Holiness,  lacked  so  long,  and  Love,  and  Pain. 

Honour  has  come  back,  as  a  king,  to  earth, 
And  paid  his  subjects  with  a  royal  wage  j 

And  Nobleness  walks  in  our  ways  again  ; 
And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 

Before  that  renunciation  one  can  only  stand  with 

39 


Contemporary    *Poets 

bowed  head,  realizing  perhaps  more  clearly  than  the 
giver  did,  the  splendour  of  the  gift.  But  he  too, 
being  representative  of  his  age,  had  weighed  in  full 
the  value  of  the  life  that  he  was  casting  away.  It 
was  to  him  a  "  red  sweet  wine,"  precious  for  the 
"  work  and  joy  "  it  promised,  and  the  sacred  seed  of 
immortality.  It  is  this,  above  all,  that  his  poetry 
signifies  ;  a  rich  and  exuberant  life,  keenly  conscious 
of  itself,  and  fully  aware  of  the  realities  by  which  it 
is  surrounded.  Its  nature  grows  from  that — sen- 
suous and  spiritual,  passionate  and  intellectual,  in- 
genuous and  ironic,  tragic  and  gay.  Not  even  in 
Donne,  whom,  perhaps,  as  some  one  has  suggested, 
he  does  resemble — was  such  intensity  of  feeling 
coupled  with  such  merciless  clarity  of  sight :  mental 
honesty  so  absolute,  controlling  a  flame  of  ardour. 

From  the  fusion  of  those  two  powers  comes  the 
distinctive  character  of  this  poetry  :  the  peculiar 
beauty  of  its  gallant  spirit.  They  are  constant 
features  of  it  from  first  to  last,  but  they  are  not 
always  perfectly  fused  nor  equally  present.  In  the 
earlier  poems,  to  find  which  you  must  go  back  to 
the  volume  of  1911  and  begin  at  the  end  of  the 
book,  they  enter  as  separate  and  distinct  com- 
ponents. One  would  expect  that,  of  course,  at 
this  stage  ;  and  we  shall  not  be  surprised,  either, 
if  we  discover  that  there  is  here  a  shade  of  excess 
40 


Rupert  Brooke 

in  both  qualities  :  a  touch  of  self-consciousness 
and  relative  crudity.  The  point  of  interest  is  that 
they  are  so  clearly  the  principal  elements  from 
which  the  subtle  and  complex  beauty  of  the  later 
work  was  evolved.  Thus,  facing  one  another  on 
pages  84  and  85,  are  two  apt  examples.  In  "The 
Call "  sheer  passion  is  expressed.  The  poet's  great 
love  of  life,  taking  shape  for  the  moment  as  love  of 
his  lady,  is  here  predominant. 

Out  of  the  nothingness  of  sleep, 

The  slow  dreams  of  Eternity, 
There  was  a  thunder  on  the  deep  : 

I  came,  because  you  called  to  me. 

I  broke  the  Night's  primeval  bars, 

I  dared  the  old  abysmal  curse, 
And  flashed  through  ranks  of  frightened  stars 

Suddenly  on  the  universe  ! 

I'll  break  and  forge  the  stars  anew, 

Shatter  the  heavens  with  a  song  ; 
Immortal  in  my  love  for  you, 

Because  I  love  you,  very  strong. 

But  on  the  opposite  page,  the  sonnet  called  "  Dawn  " 
swings  to  the  extremest  point  from  the  magniloquence 
of  that.  It  is  realistic  in  a  literal  sense  :  a  bit  of 
wilful  ugliness.  Yet  it  springs,  however  distortedly, 
from  the  root  of  mental  clarity  and  courage  which 

41 


Contemporary  'Poets 

was  to  produce  such  gracious  blossoming  thereafter. 
It  is  engaged  with  an  exasperated  account  of  a 
night  journey  in  an  Italian  train  :  all  the  discomfort 
and  weary  irritation  of  it  venting  itself  upon  two 
unfortunate  Teutons. 


One  of  them  wakes,  and  spits,  and  sleeps  again. 

The  darkness  shivers.     A  wan  light  through  the  rain 
Strikes  on  our  faces,  drawn  and  white.     Somewhere 

A  new  day  sprawls  ;   and,  inside,  the  foul  air 
Is  chill,  and  damp,  and  fouler  than  before.  .  .  . 
Opposite  me  two  Germans  sweat  and  snore. 

It  is  not  long,  however,  before  we  find  that  the 
two  elements  are  beginning  to  combine  ;  and  we 
soon  meet,  astonishingly,  with  a  third  quality  of 
the  poet's  genius.  It  is  strange  that  imagination 
always  has  this  power  to  surprise  us.  No  matter 
if  we  have  taught  ourselves  that  poetry  cannot 
begin  to  exist  without  it  :  no  matter  how  watch- 
ful and  alert  we  think  we  are,  it  will  spring  upon 
us  unaware,  taking  possession  of  the  mind  with 
amazing  exhilaration.  That  is  especially  true  of 
the  quality  as  it  is  found  in  Rupert  Brooke's  poetry. 
For,  however  you  have  schooled  yourself,  you  are 
not  looking  for  imaginative  power  of  the  first  degree 
in  alliance  with  sensuous  joy  so  keen,  and  irony 
so  acute.  Yet  in  a  piece  called  "  In  Examina- 
42 


Rupert  Brooke 

tion  "  the  miracle  is  wrought.  This,  too,  is  an  early- 
poem,  which  may  be  the  reason  why  one  can 
disengage  the  threads  so  easily;  whilst  a  notable 
fact  is  that  the  delicate  fabric  of  it  is  woven  directly 
out  of  a  commonplace  bit  of  human  experience. 
The  poet  is  engaged  with  a  scene  that  is  decidedly 
unpromising  for  poetical  treatment — all  the  stupidity 
of  examination,  with  its  dull,  unhappy,  "  scribbling 
fools." 

Lo  !   from  quiet  skies 

In  through  the  window  my  Lord  the  Sun  ! 

And  my  eyes 

Were  dazzled  and  drunk  with  the  misty  gold, 

•  •.••• 

And  a  full  tumultuous  murmur  of  wings 

Grew  through  the  hall ; 

And  I  knew  the  white  undying  Fire, 

And,  through  open  portals, 

Gyre  on  gyre, 

Archangels  and  angels,  adoring,  bowing, 

And  a  Face  unshaded  .  .  . 

Till  the  light  faded  ; 

And  they  were  but  fools  again,  fools  unknowing, 

Still  scribbling,  blear-eyed  and  stolid  immortals. 

There  are  at  least  two  poems,  "  The  Fish  "  and 
"  Dining- Room  Tea,"  in  which  imaginative  power 
prevails  over  every  other  element  ;  and  if  imagina- 
tion be  the  supreme  poetic  quality,  these  are  Rupert 

43 


Contemporary  *Poefs 

Brooke's  finest  achievement.  They  are,  indeed, 
very  remarkable  and  significant  examples  of  modern 
poetry,  both  in  conception  and  in  treatment. 
In  both  pieces  the  subjects  are  of  an  extremely 
difficult  character.  One,  that  of  "  The  Fish,"  is 
beyond  the  range  of  human  experience  altogether  ; 
and  the  other  is  only  just  within  it,  and  known,  one 
supposes,  to  comparatively  few.  The  imaginative 
flight  is  therefore  bold  :  it  is  also  lofty,  rapid,  and 
well  sustained.  In  "The  Fish  "  we  see  it  creating  a 
new  material  world,  giving  substance  and  credibility 
to  a  strange  new  order  of  sensation  : 

In  a  cool  curving  world  he  lies 
And  ripples  with  dark  ecstasies. 
The  kind  luxurious  lapse  and  steal 
Shapes  all  his  universe  to  feel 
And  know  and  be  ;   the  clinging  stream 
Closes  his  memory,  glooms  his  dream, 
Who  lips  the  roots  o'  the  shore,  and  glides 
Superb  on  unreturning  tides. 


But  there  the  night  is  close,  and  there 
Darkness  is  cold  and  strange  and  bare  ; 
And  the  secret  deeps  are  whisperless  ; 
And  rhythm  is  all  deliciousness  ; 
And  joy  is  in  the  throbbing  tide, 
Whose  intricate  ringers  beat  and  glide 

44 


Rupert  Brooke 

In  felt  bewildering  harmonies 
Of  trembling  touch  ;  and  music  is 
The  exquisite  knocking  of  the  blood. 
Space  is  no  more,  under  the  mud  ; 
His  bliss  is  older  than  the  sun. 
Silent  and  straight  the  waters  run. 
The  lights,  the  cries,  the  willows  dim, 
And  the  dark  tide  are  one  with  him. 

We  see,  all  through  this  poem  (and  the  more 
convincingly  as  the  whole  of  it  is  studied)  the 
"  fundamental  brain-stuff "  :  the  patient  con- 
structive power  of  intellect  keeping  pace  with,  fancy 
every  step  of  the  way.  So,  too,  with  "  Dining-Room 
Tea."  Imagination  here  is  busy  with  an  idea  that 
is  wild,  elusive,  intangible  :  on  the  bare  edge,  in 
fact,  of  sanity  and  consciousness.  It  is  that  momen- 
tary revelation,  which  comes  once  in  a  lifetime 
perhaps,  of  the  reality  within  appearance.  It 
comes  suddenly,  unheralded  and  unaccountable  : 
it  is  gone  again  with  the  swiftness  and  terror  of  a! 
lightning-flash.  But  in  the  fraction  of  a  second 
that  it  endures,  aeons  seem  to  pass  and  things  un- 
utterable to  be  revealed.  Only  a  poet  of  undoubted 
genius  could  re-create  such  a  moment,  for  on  any 
lower  plane  either  imagination  would  flag  or  in- 
tellect would  be  baffled,  with  results  merely  chaotic. 
And  only  to  one  whose  quick  and  warm  humanity 

45 


Contemporary  T^oets 

held  life's  common  things  so  dear  could  the  vision 
shine  out  of  such  a  homely  scene.  But  therein 
Rupert  Brooke  shows  so  clearly  as  the  poet  of  his 
day  :  that  through  the  familiar  joys  of  comradeship 
and  laughter  :  through  the  simple  concrete  things 
of  a  material  world — the  "  pouring  tea  and  cup  and 
cloth,"  Reality  gleams  eternal. 

When  you  were  there,  and  you,  and  you, 
Happiness  crowned  the  night ;   I  too, 
Laughing  and  looking,  one  of  all, 
I  watched  the  quivering  lamplight  fall 

Flung  all  the  dancing  moments  by 
With  jest  and  glitter.  .  .  . 

Till  suddenly,  and  otherwhence, 
I  looked  upon  your  innocence. 
For  lifted  clear  and  still  and  strange 
From  the  dark  woven  flow  of  change 
Under  a  vast  and  starless  sky 
I  saw  the  immortal  moment  lie. 
One  instant  I,  an  instant,  knew 
As  God  knows  all.     And  it  and  you 
I,  above  Time,  oh,  blind  !  could  see 
In  witless  immortality. 

But  the  precise  characteristic  of  this  poetry  is 
not  one  or  other  of  these  individual  gifts.  It  is  an 
intimate  and  subtle  blending  of  them  all,  shot 


Rupert  Brooke 

through  and  through  with  a  gallant  spirit  which  reso- 
lutely and  gaily  faces  truth.  From  this  brave  and 
clear  mentality  comes  a  sense  of  fact  which  finds  its 
artistic  response  in  realism.  Sometimes  it  will  be 
found  operating  externally,  on  technique  ;  but  more 
often,  with  truer  art,  it  will  wed  truth  of  idea  andj 
form,  in  grace  as  well  as  candour.  From  its  de-j 
tachment  and  quick  perception  of  incongruity 
comes  a  rare  humour  which  can  laugh,  thoughtfully 
or  derisively,  even  at  itself.  It  will  stand  aside, 
watching  its  own  exuberance  with  an  ironic  smile, 
as  in  "The  One  Before  the  Last."  It  will  turn 
a  penetrating  glance  on  passion  till  the  gaudy  thing 
wilts  and  dies.  It  will  pause  at  the  height  of 
life's  keenest  rapture  to  call  to  death  an  undaunted 
greeting  : 

Breathless,  we  flung  us  on  the  windy  hill, 

Laughed  in  the  sun,  and  kissed  the  lovely  grass. 
You  said,  "  Through  glory  and  ecstasy  we  pass  ; 
Wind,  sun,  and  earth  remain,  the  birds  sing  still, 
When  we  are  old,  are  old.  ..."     "  And  when  we  die 

All's  over  that  is  ours ;   and  life  burns  on 
Through  other  lovers,  other  lips,"  said  I, 
— "  Heart  of  my  heart,  our  heaven  is  now,  is  won  !  " 

"  We  are  Earth's  best,  that  learnt  her  lesson  here. 

Life  is  our  cry.     We  have  kept  the  faith  !  "  we  said  ; 

"  We  shall  go  down  with  unreluctant  tread 
Rose-crowned  into  the  darkness  !  "  .  .  .  Proud  we  were, 

47 


Contemporary   'Poets 

And  laughed,  that  had  such  brave  true  things  to  say. 
— And  then  you  suddenly  cried,  and  turned  away. 

Perception  keen  and  fearless,  piercing  readily 
through  the  half-truths  of  life  and  art,  has  its  own 
temptation  to  mere  cleverness.  Thence  come  the 
conceits  of  the  sonnet  called  "  He  Wonders  Whether 
to  Praise  or  Blame  Her,"  a  bit  of  the  deftest  juggling 
with  ideas  and  words.  Thence,  too,  the  alle- 
gorical brilliance  of  the  "  Funeral  of  Youth  "  ;  and 
the  merry  mockery  of  the  piece  called  "  Heaven." 
This  is  an  excellent  example  of  the  poet's  wit,  as 
distinct  from  his  richer,  more  pervasive,  humour. 
It  is  very  finely  pointed  and  closely  aimed  in  its 
satire  of  the  Victorian  religious  attitude.  And  if 
we  put  aside  an  austerity  which  sees  a  shade  of 
ungraciousness  in  it,  we  shall  find  it  a  richly  enter- 
taining bit  of  philosophy  : 

Fish  say,  they  have  their  Stream  and  Pond  ; 

But  is  there  anything  Beyond  ? 

This  life  cannot  be  All,  they  swear, 

For  how  unpleasant,  if  it  were  ! 

One  may  not  doubt  that,  somehow,  Good 

Shall  come  of  Water  and  of  Mud  ; 

And,  sure,  the  reverent  eye  must  see 

A  Purpose  in  Liquidity. 

We  darkly  know,  by  Faith  we  cry, 

The  future  is  not  Wholly  Dry. 


Rupert  Brooke 

Mud  unto  Mud  ! — Death  eddies  near — 
Not  here  the  appointed  End,  not  here  ! 
But  somewhere,  beyond  Space  and  Time, 
Is  wetter  water,  slimier  slime  ! 

And  in  that  Heaven  of  all  their  wish, 
There  shall  be  no  more  land,  say  fish. 

But,  on  the  whole,  one  loves  this  work  best  when 
its  genius  is  not  shorn  by  the  sterile  spirit  of  derision. 
Its  charm  is  greatest  when  the  creative  energy  of  it  is 
outpoured  through  what  is  called  personality.  Never 
was  a  poet  more  lavish  in  the  giving  of  himself, 
yielding  up  a  rich  and  complex  individuality  with; 
engaging  candour.  And  poems  will  be  found  in 
which  all  its  qualities  are  blended  in  a  soft  and 
intricate  harmony.  Passion  is  subdued  to  tender- 
ness :  imagination  stoops  to  fantasy  :  thought,  in 
so  far  as  it  is  not  content  merely  to  shape  the  form 
of  the  work,  is  bent  upon  ideas  that  are  wistful, 
or  sad  or  ironic.  Humour,  standing  aloof  and  quietly 
chuckling,  will  play  mischievous  pranks  with  people 
and  things.  A  satirical  imp  will  dart  into  a  line 
and  out  again  before  you  realize  that  he  is  there  ; 
and  all  the  time  a  clear-eyed,  observing  spirit  will 
be  watching  and  taking  note  with  careful  accu- 
racy. 

Of  such  is  "  The  Old  Vicarage,  Grantchester,"  in 

D  49 


Contemporary  'Poets 

which  the  poet  is  longing  for  his  home  in  Cambridge- 
shire as  he  sits  outside  a  cafe  in  Berlin.  The  poem 
is  therefore  a  cry  of  homesickness,  a  modern  "  Oh, 
to  be  in  England  !  "  But  there  is  much  more  in  it 
than  that ;  it  is  not  merely  a  wail  of  emotion.  The 
lyrical  reverie  which  recalls  all  the  sweet  natural 
beauty  that  he  is  aching  to  return  to  is  closely  woven 
with  other  strands.  So  that  one  may  catch  half  a 
dozen  incidental  impressions  which  pique  the  mind 
with  contrasting  effects  and  yet  contribute  to  the 
prevailing  sense  of  intolerable  desire  for  home. 
Thus,  when  the  poet  has  swung  off  into  a  sunny 
dream  of  the  old  house  and  garden,  the'  watching 
sense  of  fact  suddenly  jogs  him  into  consciousness 
that  he  is  not  there  at  all,  but  in  a  very  different 
place.  And  that  wakens  the  satiric  spirit,  so  that 
an  amusing  interlude  follows,  summing  up  by 
implication  much  of  the  contrast  between  the 
English  and  German  minds  : 

.  .  .  there  the  dews 

Are  soft  beneath  a  morn  of  gold. 

Here  tulips  bloom  as  they  are  told  ; 

Unkempt  about  those  hedges  blows 

An  English  unofficial  rose  ; 

And  there  the  unregulated  sun 

Slopes  down  to  rest  when  day  is  done, 

And  wakes  a  vague  unpunctual  star, 

A  slippered  Hesper  ;  and  there  are 

50 


Rupert  Brooke 

Meads  towards  Haslingfield  and  Coton 
Where  das  Betre ten's  not  verboten. 

eWe  yevoi/JLiriv  .  .  .  would  I  were 
In  Grantchester,  in  Grantchester  ! — 

He  slips  back  again  into  the  softer  mood  of  memory, 
not  of  the  immediate  home  scenes  only,  but  of  their 
associations,  historical  and  academic.  Always,  how- 
ever, that  keen  helmsman  steers  to  the  windward 
of  sentimentality  :  better  risk  rough  weather,  it 
seems  to  say,  than  shipwreck  on  some  lotus-island. 
And  every  time  the  boat  would  appear  to  be  making 
fairly  for  an  exquisite  idyllic  haven,  she  is  headed 
into  the  breeze  again.  But  though  she  gets  a 
buffeting,  and  even  threatens  to  capsize  at  one 
moment  in  boisterous  jest,  she  comes  serenely  into 
port  at  last. 

Say,  do  the  elm-clumps  greatly  stand 
Still  guardians  of  that  holy  land  ? 
The  chestnuts  shade,  in  reverend  dream, 
The  yet  unacademic  stream  ? 
Is  dawn  a  secret  shy  and  cold 
Anadyomene,  silver-gold  ? 
And  sunset  still  a  golden  sea 
From  Haslingfield  to  Madingley  ? 
And  after,  ere  the  night  is  born, 
Do  hares  come  out  about  the  corn  ? 
Oh,  is  the  water  sweet  and  cool, 
Gentle  and  brown,  above  the  pool  ? 

51 


Contemporary   ^Poets 

And  laughs  the  immortal  river  still 

Under  the  mill,  under  the  mill  ? 

Say,  is  there  Beauty  yet  to  find  ? 

And  Certainty  ?  and  Quiet  kind  ? 

Deep  meadows  yet,  for  to  forget 

The  lies,  and  truths,  and  pain  ?  .  .  .  oh  !  yet 

Stands  the  Church  clock  at  ten  to  three  ? 

And  is  there  honey  still  for  tea  I 


H^illiam  H.  TDavies 

I  SHOULD  think  that  the  work  of  Mr  Davies 
is  the  nearest  approach  that  the  poetic  genius 
could  make  to  absolute  simplicity.  It  is 
a  wonderful  thing,  too,  in  its  independence,  its 
almost  complete  isolation  from  literary  tradition 
and  influence.  People  talk  of  Herrick  in  connexion 
with  this  poet ;  and  if  they  mean  no  more  than  to 
wonder  at  a  resemblance  which  is  a  surprising  acci- 
dent, one  would  run  to  join  them  in  their  happy 
amazement.  But  there  is  no  evidence  of  direct 
influence,  any  more  than  by  another  token  we 
could  associate  his  realism  with  that  of  Crabbe. 
No,  this  is  verse  which  has  "  growed,"  autochthonic 
if  poetry  ever  were,  unliterary,  and  spontaneous  in 
the  many  senses  of  that  word. 

From  that  fact  alone,  these  seven  small  volumes 
of  verse  are  a  singular. phenomenon.  But  they  teem 
with  interest  of  other  kinds  too.  First  and  foremost 
there  is,  of  course,  the  preciousness  of  many  of  the 
pieces  they  contain,  as  pure  poetry,  undimmed  by 
any  other  consideration  whatsoever.  That  applies 
to  a  fair  proportion  of  this  work  ;  and  it  is  a  delight- 
someness  which,  from  its  very  independence  of  time 
and  circumstance,  one  looks  quite  soberly  to  last 
the  centuries  through  ;  and  if  it  lapse  at  all  from 

53 


Contemporary  'Poets 

favour,  to  be  rediscovered  two  or  three  hundred 
years  hence  as  we  have  rediscovered  the  poets  of 
the  seventeenth  century. 

It  has,  however,  inherent  interest  apart  from  this 
aesthetic  joy,  something  which  catches  and  holds 
the  mind,  startling  it  with  an  apparent  paradox. 
For  this  poetry,  with  its  solitariness  and  absence  of 
any  affiliation  ancient  or   modern,  with   its    bird- 
note  bubbling  into  song  at  some  sweet  impulse  and 
seemingly  careless  of  everything  but  the  impelling 
rapture,  is  at  the  same  time  one  of  the  grimmest 
pages  out  of  contemporary  life.     In  saying  that, 
one   pauses   for   a   moment   sternly  to  interrogate 
one's  own  impression.     How  much  of  this  apparent 
paradox   is    due   to   knowledge    derived   from   the 
author's   astounding  autobiography  ?     Turn  pain- 
fully back  for  a  moment  to  the  thoughts  and  feelings 
aroused  by  that  book  :    recall  the  rage  against  the 
stupidity  of  life  which  brings  genius  to  birth  so 
carelessly,  endowing  it  with  appetites  too  strong  for 
the  will  to  tame  and  senses  too  acute  for  the  mind 
to  leash  until  the  soul  had  been  buffeted  and  the 
body  maimed.     And  admit  at  once  that  such  a  tale, 
all  the  more  for  its  quiet  veracity,  could  not  fail 
to  influence  one's  attitude  to  this  poetry.     No  doubt 
it  is  that  which  gives  assurance,  certainty,  the  proof 
of  actual  data,  to  the  human  record  adumbrated 

54 


W&illiam    H.    Da  vies 

in  the  poems.  But  the  record  itself  is  no  less  present 
there.  It  often  exists,  implicit  or  explicit,  in  that 
part  of  the  verse  which  sings  because  it  must  and 
for  sheer  love  of  itself.  And  in  that  other  part 
of  the  work  where  the  lyric  note  is  not  so  clear  : 
in  the  narrative  poems  and  queer  character-studies 
and  little  dramatic  pieces,  the  record  lives  vivid 
and  almost  complete.  Perhaps  it  is  the  nature  of 
the  record  itself  which  denies  full  inspiration  to 
those  pieces  :  perhaps  Mr  Davies'  lyric  gift  cannot 
find  its  most  fitting  expression  in  themes  so  grim  : 
in  any  case  it  is  clear  that  these  personal  pieces  are 
not  equal  to  the  lighter  songs. 

Now  if  one's  conscience  were  supple  enough  to 
accept  those  lighter  songs  as  Mr  Davies'  complete 
work  :  if  we  could  conveniently  forget  the  auto- 
biography, and  when  visualizing  his  output,  call  up 
some  charming  collected  edition  of  the  poems  with 
the  unsatisfactory  ones  carefully  deleted,  we  could 
go  on  with  our  study  easily  and  gaily.  We  might 
pause  a  moment  to  marvel  at  this  *  isolated  phe- 
nomenon '  :  we  might  even  remark  upon  his 
detachment,  not  only  from  literature,  but  almost 
as  completely  from  the  ordinary  concerns  of  life. 
That  done,  however,  we  should  at  once  take  a 
header  into  the  delicious  refreshment  of  the  lyrics. 
Such  a  study  would  be  very  fascinating  ;  and  from 

55 


Contemporary   *Poefs 

the  standpoint  of  Art  as  Art,  it  might  not  be  in- 
adequate. But  it  would  totally  lack  significance. 
Even  from  the  point  of  view  of  pure  poetry,  the  loss 
would  be  profound — not  to  realize  that  behind  the 
blithest  of  these  trills  of  song  is  a  background  as 
stormy  as  any  winter  sky  behind  a  robin  on  a  bare 
bough.  There  is  this  one,  for  example,  from  the 
volume  called  Foliage  : 

If  I  were  gusty  April  now, 

How  I  would  blow  at  laughing  Rose  ; 

I'd  make  her  ribbons  slip  their  knots, 
And  all  her  hair  come  loose. 

If  I  were  merry  April  now, 

How  I  would  pelt  her  cheeks  with  showers  ; 
I'd  make  carnations  rich  and  warm, 

Of  her  vermilion  flowers. 

Since  she  will  laugh  in  April's  face, 
No  matter  how  he  rains  or  blows — 

Then  O  that  I  wild  April  were, 
To  play  with  laughing  Rose. 

The  gaiety  of  that,  considered  simply  in  its 
lightness  of  heart,  its  verbal  and  metrical  felicity, 
is  a  delightful  thing.  And  it  recurs  so  frequently 
as  to  make  Mr  Davies  quite  the  j  oiliest  of  modern 
poets.  So  if  we  are  content  to  stop  there,  if  we 
are  not  teased  by  an  instinct  to  relate  things,  and  see 
all  round  them,  we  may  make  holiday  pleasantly 
enough  with  this  part  of  the  poet's  work.  The 

56 


P^illiam  H .  Davies 

method  is  not  really  satisfying,  however,  and  the 
inclusion  of  the  more  personal  pieces  adds  a  deeper 
value  to  the  study.  Not  merely  because  the  facts 
of  a  poet's  life  are  interesting  in  themselves,  but 
because  here  especially  they  are  illuminating, 
explanatory,  suggestive  :  connecting  and  unifying 
the  philosophical  interest  of  the  work,  and  supply- 
ing a  background,  darkly  impressive,  for  the  bright 
colours  of  its  art. 

For  that  reason  one  would  refuse  to  pass  over  in 
silence  Mr  Davies'  first  book  of  poems,  The  Soul's 
Destroyer,  published  in  1907.  Not  that  it  is  per- 
fect poetry  :  indeed,  I  doubt  whether  one  really 
satisfying  piece  could  be  chosen  from  the  whole 
fourteen.  But  it  has  deep  human  interest.  The 
book  is  slim,  sombre,  almost  insignificant  in  its 
paper  wrappers.  But  its  looks  belie  it.  It  is,  in 
fact,  nothing  less  than  a  flame  of  courage,  a  shin- 
ing triumph  of  the  spirit  of  humanity.  Mr  Shaw 
has  made  play  with  the  facts  of  this  poet's  life, 
partly  because  '  it  is  his  nature  so  to  do,'  and 
partly,  one  suspects,  to  hide  a  deeper  feeling. 
But  play  as  you  will  with  the  willing  vagabond- 
age, the  irresponsibility,  the  excess  and  error  of 
exuberant  youth,  you  will  only  film  the  surface  of 
the  tragedy.  Underneath  will  remain  those  sullen 
questions — what  is  life  about,  what  are  our  systems 

57 


Contemporary 

and  our  laws  about,  that  a  human  creature  and  one 
with  the  miraculous  spark  of  genius  in  him,  is  chased 
hungry  and  homeless  up  and  down  his  own  country, 
tossed  from  continent  to  continent  and  thrown  up  at 
last,  broken  and  all  but  helpless,  to  be  persecuted  by 
some  contemptible  agent  of  charity  and  to  wander 
from  one  crowded  lodging-house  to  another,  seeking 
vainly  for  a  quiet  corner  in  which  to  make  his  songs. 
The  verses  in  77><f  SouVs  Destroyer  were  written  under 
those  conditions  ;  and  by  virtue  of  that  it  would 
seem  that  the  drab  little  volume  attains  to  spiritual 
magnificence. 

The  themes  in  this  book  and  those  of  New  Poems, 
published  in  the  same  year,  are  of  that  personal  kind 
of  which  we  have  already  spoken.  But  you  will 
be  quite  wrong  if  you  suppose  that  they  are  therefore 
gloomy.  On  the  contrary,  though  there  is  an  oc- 
casional didactic  piece,  like  that  which  gives  its  title 
to  the  first  volume,  there  is  more  often  a  vein  of 
humour.  Thus  we  have  the  astonishing  catalogue 
of  lodging-house  humanity  in  "  Saints  and  Lodgers  " 
with  the  satirical  flavour  of  its  invocation  : 

Ye  saints,  that  sing  in  rooms  above, 
Do  ye  want  souls  to  consecrate  ? 

And  there  is  "  The  Jolly  Tramp,"  a  scrap  of  auto- 
biography, perhaps  not  very  much  coloured  : 


William  H.   Davies 

I  am  a  jolly  tramp  :   I  whine  to  you, 

Then  whistles  till  I  meet  another  fool. 

I  call  the  labourer  sir,  the  boy  young  man, 

The  maid  young  lady,  and  the  mother  I 

Will  flatter  through  the  youngest  child  that  walks. 

In  "  Wondering  Brown  "  there  is  surely  something 
unique  in  poetry  :  not  alone  in  theme,  and  the 
extraordinary  set  of  circumstances  which  enabled 
such  a  bit  of  life  to  be  observed,  by  a  poet,  from  the 
inside  ;  but  in  the  rare  quality  of  it,  its  sympathetic 
satire,  the  genial  incisiveness  of  its  criticism  of  life : 

There  came  a  man  to  sell  his  shirt, 
A  drunken  man,  in  life  low  down  ; 

When  Riley,  who  was  sitting  near, 

Made  use  of  these  strange  words  to  Brown. 

"  Yon  fallen  man,  that's  just  gone  past, 
I  knew  in  better  days  than  these  ; 

Three  shillings  he  could  make  a  day, 
As  an  adept  at  picking  peas." 

"  You'd  scarcely  credit  it,  I  knew 
A  man  in  this  same  house,  low  down, 

Who  owns  a  fish-shop  now — believe 
Me,  or  believe  me  not,"  said  Brown. 

"  He  was  a  civil  sort  of  cove, 

But  did  queer  things,  for  one  low  down  : 

Oft  have  I  watched  him  clean  his  teeth — 
As  true  as  Heaven's  above  ! "  cried  Brown. 

59 


Contemporary   T^oets 

This  humorous  quality  is  the  most  marked  form 
of  an  attitude  of  detachment  which  may  be  observed 
in  most  of  the  personal  pieces.  So  complete  is  this 
detachment  sometimes,  as  in  "  Strange  People  "  or 
"  Scotty  Bill  "  or  "  Facts,"  that  one  is  tempted  to  a 
heresy.  Is  it  possible,  in  view  of  this  lightness  of 
touch,  this  untroubled  pace  and  coolness  of  word 
and  phrase,  that  the  poet  did  not  see  the  implications 
of  what  he  was  recording,  or  seeing  them,  was  not 
greatly  moved  by  them  ?  Now  there  are  certain 
passages  which  prove  that  that  doubt  is  a  heresy  : 
that  the  poet  did  perceive  and  feel  the  complete 
significance  of  the  facts  he  was  handling.  Other- 
wise, of  course,  he  were  no  poet.  There  is  evidence 
of  this  in  such  a  poem  as  "  A  Blind  Child,"  from 
which  I  quote  a  couple  of  stanzas  : 

We're  in  the  garden,  where  are  bees 
And  flowers,  and  birds,  and  butterflies  ; 
There  is  one  greedy  fledgling  cries 

For  all  the  food  his  parent  sees  ! 

I  see  them  all :  flowers  of  all  kind, 
The  sheep  and  cattle  on  the  leas  ; 
The  houses  up  the  hills,  and  trees — 

But  I  am  dumb,  for  she  is  blind. 

There  is,  too,  the  last  stanza  of  "  Facts,"  a  narrative 
piece    which    relates    the    infamous    treatment    by 
workhouse  officials  of  an  old  and  dying  man  : 
60 


William  H.  Davies 

Since  Jesus  came  with  mercy  and  love, 
'Tis  nineteen  hundred  years  and  five  : 

They  made  that  dying  man  break  stones, 
In  faith  that  Christ  is  still  alive. 

A  hideous  scrap  of  notoriety  for  A.D.  1905  ! — and 
proof  enough  to  convince  us  of  our  author's 
humanity.  At  the  same  time,  however,  it  is  the 
fact  that  there  is  little  sign  of  intense  emotion  in 
this  work.  One  comes  near  it,  perhaps,  in  a  passage 
in  "  The  Forsaken  Dead,"  where  the  poet  is  musing  in 
the  burial-place  of  a  deserted  settlement,  and  breaks 
into  wrath  at  the  tyranny  which  drove  the  people 
out  : 

Had  they  no  dreamer  who  might  have  remained 
To  sing  for  them  these  desolated  scenes  ? 
One  who  might  on  a  starved  body  take 
Strong  flights  beyond  the  fiery  larks  in  song, 
With  awful  music,  passionate  with  hate  ? 

But  that  is  a  rare  example.  Deep  emotion  is  not 
a  feature  of  Mr  Davies'  poetry  :  neither  in  the 
poems  of  life,  which  might  be  supposed  to  awaken 
it  directly ;  nor,  stranger  still,  in  the  infrequent 
love  poems  ;  nor  in  the  lyrics  of  nature.  It  would 
be  interesting  to  speculate  on  this,  if  there  were 
any  use  in  it — whether  it  is  after  all  just  a  sign  of 
excessive  feeling,  masked  by  restraint  ;  whether  it 
may  be  in  some  way  a  reaction  from  a  life  of  too 

61 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

much  sensation  ;  or  whether  it  simply  means  that 
emotion  is  nicely  balanced  by  objective  power. 
Perhaps  an  analysis  would  determine  the  question 
in  the  direction  of  a  balance  of  power  ;  but  the  fact 
remains  that  though  sensibility  has  a  wide  range, 
though  it  is  quick,  acute  and  tender,  it  is  not 
intense. 

It  would  be  unfair,  however,  to  suggest  that  these 
earlier  volumes  are  only  interesting  on  the  personal 
side.  The  pure  lyric  note  is  uttered  first  here  : 
once  or  twice  in  a  small  perfect  song,  as  "  The 
Likeness  "  and  "  Parted  "  ;  but  oftener  in  a  snatch 
or  a  broken  trill,  as 

He  who  loves  Nature  truly,  hath 
His  wealth  in  her  kind  hands ;  and  it 
Is  in  safe  trust  until  his  death, 
Increasing  as  he  uses  it. 

Or  a  passage  from  "  Music,"  invoking  the  memory 
of  childhood  : 

O  happy  days  of  childhood,  when 
We  taught  shy  Echo  in  the  glen 
Words  she  had  never  used  before — • 
Ere  Age  lost  heart  to  snmmon  her. 
Life's  river,  with  its  early  rush, 
Falls  into  a  mysterious  hush 
When  nearing  the  eternal  sea  : 
Yet  we  would  not  forgetful  be, 

62 


William  H .  Davies 

In  these  deep,  silent  days  so  wise, 

Of  shallows  making  mighty  noise 

When  we  were  young,  when  we  were  gay, 

And  never  thought  Death  lived — that  day. 

Or  a  fragment  from  "The  Calm,"  when  the  poet 
has  been  thinking  of  his  "tempestuous  past,"  and 
contrasts  it  with  his  present  well-being,  and  the 
country  joys  which  he  fears  will  be  snatched  away 
again  : 

But  are  these  pleasant  days  to  keep  ? 

Where  shall  I  be  when  Summer  comes  ? 

When,  with  a  bee's  mouth  closed,  she  hums 

Sounds  not  to  wake,  but  soft  and  deep, 

To  make  her  pretty  charges  sleep  ? 

The  love  of  Nature  which  supplies  the  theme 
here  is  a  characteristic  that  persists  throughout  the 
subsequent  volumes.  It  recurs  more  and  more 
frequently,  until  the  autobiographical  element  is 
almost  eliminated  ;  and  just  as  it  is  the  main  motive 
of  the  later  poetry,  so  it  is  its  happiest  inspiration. 
It  is  rather  a  pagan  feeling,  taking  great  joy  in  the 
beauty  of  the  material  world,  revelling  in  the 
impressions  of  sight  and  scent,  sound  and  taste  and 
touch.  It  is  humane  enough  to  embrace  the  whole 
world  of  animal  life  ;  but  it  seeks  no  spirit  behind 
the  phenomena  of  Nature,  and  cares  precisely 
nothing  about  its  more  scientific  aspect.  Its  gay 

63 


Contemporary   Toets 

light someness  is   a    charming   thing   to   watch,  an 
amazing  thing  to  think  about  : 

For  Lord,  how  merry  now  am  I  ! 
Tickling  with  straw  the  butterfly, 
Where  she  doth  in  her  clean,  white  dress, 
Sit  on  a  green  leaf,  motionless, 
To  hear  Bees  hum  away  the  hours. 

Or  again,  from  "  Leisure,"  in  Songs  of  Joy  : 

What  is  this  life  if,  full  of  care, 
We  have  no  time  to  stand  and  stare. 


No  time  to  see,  when  woods  we  pass, 
Where  squirrels  hide  their  nuts  in  grass. 

No  time  to  see,  in  broad  daylight, 
Streams  full  of  stars,  like  skies  at  night. 


A  poor  life  this  if,  full  of  care, 

We  have  no  time  to  stand  and  stare. 

And  a  "  Greeting,"  from  the  volume  called  Foliage 

Good  morning,  Life — and  all 
Things  glad  and  beautiful. 
My  pockets  nothing  hold, 
But  he  that  owns  the  gold, 
The  Sun,  is  my  great  friend — 
His  spending  has  no  end. 

64 


William  H .   Da  vies 

Hail  to  the  morning  sky, 

Which  bright  clouds  measure  high  ; 

Hail  to  you  birds  whose  throats 

Would  number  leaves  by  notes  ; 

Hail  to  you  shady  bowers, 

And  you  green  fields  of  flowers. 

The  poet  does  not  claim  to  be  learned  in  nature 
lore  :  indeed  he  declares  in  one  place  that  he  does 
not  know  '  the  barley  from  the  oats.'  But  he  has 
a  gift  of  fancy  which  often  plays  about  his  observa- 
tion with  delightful  effect.  One  could  hardly  call 
it  by  so  big  a  name  as  imagination  :  that  suggests 
a  height  and  power  of  vision  which  this  work  does 
not  possess,  and  which  one  would  not  look  for  in 
this  type  of  genius.  It  is  a  lighter  quality,  oc- 
casionally childlike  in  its  naivete,  fantastical,  grace- 
ful, even  quaint.  It  is  seen  in  simile  sometimes, 
as  this  from  The  Soul's  Destroyer,  describing  the  sky  : 

It  was  a  day  of  rest  in  heaven,  which  seemed 
A  blue  grass  field  thick  dotted  with  white  tents 
Which  Life  slept  late  in,  though  'twere  holiday. 

Or  this  account   of  the  origin   of  the  Kingfisher, 
from  "  Farewell  to  Poesy  " : 

It  was  the  Rainbow  gave  thee  birth, 
And  left  thee  all  her  lovely  hues  ; 

And,  as  her  mother's  name  was  Tears, 
So  runs  it  in  thy  blood  to  choose 

E  65 


Contemporary   ^Poets 

For  haunts  the  lonely  pools,  and  keep 
In  company  with  trees  that  weep. 

Or  a  fancy  about  the  sound  of  rain  from  Nature 

Poems  : 

I  hear  leaves  drinking  rain  ; 

I  hear  rich  leaves  on  top 
Giving  the  poor  beneath 

Drop  after  drop  ; 
'Tis  a  sweet  noise  to  hear 
Those  green  leaves  drinking  near. 

It  plays  an  important  part  too  in  the  poems 
upon  other  favourite  themes,  on  a  woman's  hair, 
on  her  voice,  on  music.  Such  are  "  Sweet  Music  " 
and  "A  Maiden  and  her  Hair"  in  Nature  Poems : 
as  well  as  "  The  Flood,"  from  which  I  quote.  It 
will  be  found  in  Songs  of  Joy  : 

I  thought  my  true  love  slept  ; 
Behind  her  chair  I  crept 

And  pulled  out  a  long  pin  ; 
The  golden  flood  came  out, 
She  shook  it  all  about, 

With  both  our  faces  in. 

Ah  !  little  wren  I  know 
Your  mossy,  small  nest  now 

A  windy,  cold  place  is  : 
No  eye  can  see  my  face, 
Howe'er  it  watch  the  place 

Where  I  half  drown  in  bliss. 

66 


ffiilliam  H.   Da  vies 

A  development  of  technique  in  the  later  work 
lends  ease  and  precision  to  the  poet's  use  of  his 
instrument.  Little  faults  of  metre  and  of  rhyme 
are  corrected  :  banalities  of  phrase  and  crudities 
of  thought  almost  disappear,  so  that  the  verse 
acquires  a  new  grace.  It  gains,  too,  from  a  wider 
variety  of  form  :  for  the  verses  may  be  as  short  as 
one  foot,  or  as  long  as  five  :  and  there  may  be 
stanzas  of  only  two  lines,  or  anything  up  to  eight. 
There  are  even  pieces  written  in  the  closed  couplet 
and  in  blank  verse.  But  Mr  Davies  is  by  no  means 
an  innovator  in  his  art,  as  so  many  of  his  contem- 
poraries are.  The  variety  we  have  noted  is,  after 
all,  only  a  modification  of  traditional  form  and  not 
a  departure  from  it ;  and  always  as  its  basis,  the 
almost  constant  unit  is  the  iamb.  Very  rarely  is  any 
other  measure  adopted  ;  and  so  well  does  the  iamb 
suit  the  simple  and  direct  nature  of  this  work  in 
thought,  word  and  phrase,  that  one  would  not  often 
alter  it.  One  of  the  perfect  examples  of  its  fitness 
is  in  Ci  The  Battle,"  from  Nature  Poems'. 

There  was  a  battle  in  her  face, 

Between  a  Lily  and  a  Rose  : 
My  Love  would  have  the  Lily  win 

And  I  the  Lily  lose. 

I  saw  with  joy  that  strife,  first  one, 
And  then  the  other  uppermost  ; 


Contemporary  "Poets 

Until  the  Rose  roused  all  its  blood, 
And  then  the  Lily  lost. 

When  she's  alone,  the  Lily  rules, 
By  her  consent,  without  mistake  : 

But  when  I  come  that  red  Rose  leaps 
To  battle  for  my  sake. 

Occasionally,  however,  and  especially  in  the  longer 
poems,  the  regular  recurrence  of  the  iamb  is  a  little 
monotonous.  Then  a  wish  just  peeps  out  that 
Mr  Davies  were  more  venturous  :  that  he  had 
some  slight  experimental  turn,  or  that  he  did  not 
stand  quite  so  far  aloof  from  the  influences  which, 
within  his  sight  and  hearing,  are  shaping  a  new  kind 
of  poetic  expression.  But  the  regret  may  be  put 
aside.  The  fresh  forms  which  those  others  are 
evolving  are  valid  for  them — for  life  as  they  conceive 
it — for  the  wider  range  and  the  more  complex 
nature  of  the  experience  out  of  which  they  are 
distilling  the  poetic  essence.  For  him,  however, 
the  lyric  mood  burns  clear  and  untroubled,  kindling 
directly  to  the  beauty  of  simple  and  common  things. 
And  instinctively  he  seeks  to  embody  it  in  cadence 
and  measure  which  are  sweetly  familiar.  When 
some  exhilarating  touch  quickens  and  lightens  his 
verse  with  a  more  tripping  measure,  as  in  "The 
Laughers "  (from  Nature  Poems)  its  gay  charm  is 
irresistible. 
68 


William  H .   Davies 

Mary  and  Maud  have  met  at  the  door, 

Oh,  now  for  a  din  ;  I  told  you  so  : 
They're  laughing  at  once  with  sweet,  round  mouths, 

Laughing  for  what  ?   does  anyone  know  ? 

Is  it  known  to  the  bird  in  the  cage, 
That  shrieketh  for  joy  his  high  top  notes, 

After  a  silence  so  long  and  grave — 

What  started  at  once  those  two  sweet  throats  ? 

Is  it  known  to  the  Wind  that  takes 

Advantage  at  once  and  conies  right  in  ? 

Is  it  known  to  the  cock  in  the  yard, 
That  crows — the  cause  of  that  merry  din  ? 

Is  it  known  to  the  babe  that  he  shouts  ? 

Is  it  known  to  the  old,  purring  cat  ? 
Is  it  known  to  the  dog,  that  he  barks 

For  joy — what  Mary  and  Maud  laugh  at  ? 

Is  it  known  to  themselves  ?     It  is  not, 
But  beware  of  their  great  shining  eyes  ; 

For  Mary  and  Maud  will  soon,  I  swear, 
Find  cause  to  make  far  merrier  cries. 

It  is  hard  to  close  even  a  slight  study  of  Mr  Davies' 
work  without  another  glance  at  his  originality.  One 
hesitates  to  use  that  word,  strained  and  tortured 
as  it  often  is  to  express  a  dozen  different  meanings. 
It  might  be  applied,  in  one  sense  or  another,  to 
nearly  all  our  contemporary  poets,  with  whom  it 
seems  to  be  an  article  of  artistic  faith  to  avoid  like 

69 


Contemporary   ^Poets 

the  plague  any  sign  of  being  derivative.  So,  al- 
though their  minds  may  be  steeped  in  older  poetry, 
they  deliberately  turn  away  from  its  influence, 
seeking  inspiration  in  life  itself.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  they  are  building  up  a  new  kind  of  poetry, 
with  values  that  sound  strange  perhaps  to  the  un- 
familiar ear,  but  which  bid  fair  to  enlarge  the  field 
for  the  poetic  genius  and  enrich  it  permanently. 
But  the  crux  of  the  question  for  us  at  this  moment 
is  the  fact  of  effort,  the  deliberate  endeavour  which 
is  made  by  those  poets  to  escape  from  tradition. 
No  sign  of  such  an  effort  is  visible  in  Mr  Davies' 
work,  and  yet  it  is  the  most  original  of  them  all— 
the  newest,  freshest,  and  most  spontaneous. 

The  reason  lies,  of  course,  in  the  qualities  we  have 
already  noted.  It  is  not  entirely  an  external  matter, 
as  the  influence  of  his  career  might  lead  us  to  believe. 
That  has  naturally  played  its  part,  making  the 
substance  of  some  of  his  verse  almost  unique  ;  and, 
more  important  still,  guarding  him  from  bookish- 
ness  and  leaving  his  mind  free  to  receive  and 
convey  impressions  at  first  hand.  From  this  come 
the  bracing  freshness  of  his  poetry,  its  naivete  of 
language,  its  apparent  artlessness  and  unconscious 
charm.  But  the  root  of  the  matter  lies  deeper 
than  that,  mainly  I  think  in  the  sincerity  and  sim- 
plicity which  are  the  chief  qualities  of  his  genius. 

70 


William  H.   Davies 


Both  qualities  are  fundamental  and  constant, 
vitalizing  the  work  and  having  a  visible  influence 
upon  its  form.  For,  on  the  one  hand,  we  see  that 
simplicity  reflected  not  only  in  the  thought,  and 
themes,  but  in  the  language  and  the  technique  of 
this  poetry  ;  while  on  the  other  hand  there  is  a 
loyalty  which  is  absolutely  faithful  to  its  own 
experience  and  the  laws  of  its  own  nature. 


V 


H^alter  De  La  Mare 


1 


is  one  sense  in  which  this  poet  has 
never  grown  up,  and  we  may,  if  we  please, 
recapture  our  own  childhood  as  we  wander 
with  him  through  his  enchanted  garden.  And  if 
it  be  true,  as  John  Masefield  says,  that  "  the  days 
that  make  us  happy  make  us  wise,"  it  is  blessed 
wisdom  that  should  be  ours  at  the  end  of  our  ramble. 
For  see  what  a  delightful  place  it  is  !  Not  one  of 
your  opulent,  gorgeous  gardens,  with  well-groomed 
lawns  and  flower-beds  teeming  with  precious 
nurselings ;  but  a  much  homelier  region,  and  one 
of  more  elusive  and  delicate  charm.  Boundaries 
there  are,  for  order  and  safe  going,  but  they  are 
hidden  away  in  dancing  foliage  :  and  there  are  leafy 
paths  which  seem  to  wind  into  infinity,  and  corners 
where  mystery  lurks. 

Some  one  is  always  sitting  there, 

In  the  little  green  orchard  ; 
•  ••«•• 

When  you  are  most  alone, 
All  but  the  silence  gone  .  .  . 
Some  one  is  waiting  and  watching  there, 
In  the  little  green  orchard. 

Flowers  grow  in  the  sunny  spaces,  and  all  the  wild 
72 


Walter  De  La  Mare 

things  that  children  love — primrose  and  pimpernel, 
darnel  and  thorn  ; 

Teasle  and  tansy,  meadowsweet, 
Campion,  toadflax,  and  rough  hawksbit  ; 
Brown  bee  orchis,  and  Peals  of  Bells  ; 
Clover,  burnet,  and  thyme.  .  .   . 

It  is  mostly  a  shadowy  place  however,  not  chill 
and  gloomy,  but  arched  with  slender  trees,  through 
whose  thin  leafage  slant  the  warm  fingers  of  the  sun, 
picking  out  clear,  quickly-moving  patterns  upon 
the  grass.  The  air  is  soft,  the  light  is  as  mellow 
as  a  harvest  moon,  and  the  sounds  of  the  outer 
world  are  subdued  almost  to  silence.  Nothing 
loud  or  strenuous  disturbs  the  tranquillity  :  only 
the  remote  voices  of  happy  children  and  friendly 
beasts  and  kind  old  people.  Wonder  lives  here, 
but  not  fear ;  smiles  but  not  laughter ;  tenderness 
but  not  passion.  And  the  presiding  genius  of  the 
spot  is  the  poet's  "  Sleeping  Cupid,"  sitting  in  the 
shade  with  his  bare  feet  deep  in  the  grass  and  the  dew 
slowly  gathering  upon  his  curls  :  a  cool  and  lovesome 
elf,  softly  dreaming  of  beauty  in  a  quiet  place. 

So  one  might  try  to  catch  into  tangible  shape  the 
spirit  of  this  poetry,  only  to  realize  the  impossibility 
of  doing  anything  of  the  kind.  But  mere  analysis 
would  be  equally  futile  ;  for  the  essence  of  it  is  as 

73 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

subtle  as  air  and  as  fluid  as  light  ;  and  one  is  finally 
compelled,  in  the  hope  of  conveying  some  impression 
of  the  nature  of  it,  to  fall  back  upon  comparison. 
It  is  a  clumsy  method  however,  frequently  doing 
violence  to  one  or  both  of  the  poets  compared  ;  and 
even  when  used  discreetly,  it  often  serves  only  to  indi- 
cate a  more  or  less  obvious  point  of  resemblance.  But 
we  must  take  the  risk  of  that  for  the  moment,  and  call 
out  of  memory  the  magical  effect  that  is  produced 
upon  the  mind  by  the  reading  of  "  Kubla  Khan," 
or  "  Christabel"  or  "  The  Ancient  Mariner."  Very 
similar  to  that  is  the  effect  of  Mr  de  la  Mare's 
poetry.  There  is  a  difference,  and  its  implications 
are  important ;  but  the  chief  fact  is  that  here, 
amongst  this  modern  poetry  of  so  different  an  order, 
you  find  work  which  seems  like  a  lovely  survival 
from  the  age  of  romance. 

That  is  why  one  has  the  feeling  that  this  poet 
has  never  grown  up.  Partly  from  a  natural  in- 
clination, and  partly  from  a  deliberate  plan  (like 
that  of  Coleridge)  to  produce  a  certain  kind  of  art, 
he  has  created  a  faery,  twilight  world,  a  world  of 
wonder  and  fantasy,  which  is  the  home  of  perpetual 
youth.  He  has  never  really  lost  that  time  when, 
as  a  little  boy,  he  says  that  he  listened  to  Martha 
telling  her  stories  in  the  hazel  glen.  Martha,  of 
£  the  clear  grey  eyes  '  and  the  '  grave,  small, 

74 


Walter  De  La  Mare 

lovely   head '    is   surely   a   veritable    handmaid   of 
romance  : 

'  Once  .  .  .  once  upon  a  time  .  .  .* 

Like  a  dream  you  dream  in  the  night, 
Fairies  and  gnomes  stole  out 
In  the  leaf -green  light. 

And  her  beauty  far  away 

Would  fade,  as  her  voice  ran  on, 
Till  hazel  and  summer  sun 

And  all  were  gone  : — 

All  fordone  and  forgot  ; 

And  like  clouds  in  the  height  of  the  sky, 
Our  hearts  stood  still  in  the  hush 

Of  an  age  gone  by. 

That  hush,  invoking  a  sense  of  remoteness  in  space 
and  time,  lies  over  all  his  work.  It  is  as  though, 
walking  in  the  garden  of  this  verse,  a  child  flitted 
lightly  before  us  with  a  finger  raised  in  a  gesture 
of  silence.  And  it  is  not  for  nothing  that  his  princi- 
pal book  is  called  The  Listeners.  Footfalls  are  light, 
and  voices  soft,  and  the  wind  is  gentle  :  the  noise 
of  life  is  filtered  to  a  whisper  or  a  rustle  or  a  sleepy 
murmur.  It  is  a  device,  of  course,  as  we  quickly 
see  if  we  peer  too  curiously  at  it  :  just  a  contrivance 
of  the  romantic  artist  to  create  '  atmosphere.' 
But  it  is  so  cunningly  done  that  you  never  suspect 

75 


Contemporary  'Poets 

the  contriving  ;  and  if  you  would  gauge  the  skill 
of  the  poet  in  this  direction,  you  should  note  that 
he  is  able  to  produce  the  desired  effect  in  the  broad 
light  of  day  as  well  as  in  shadow  and  twilight.  It 
is  a  more  difficult  achievement,  and  much  rarer. 
Evening  is  the  time  that  the  poets  generally  choose 
to  work  this  particular  spell  :  though  moonlight 
or  starlight,  dawn,  sunset,  and  almost  any  degree  of 
darkness  will  serve  them.  Sunlight  alone,  wide- 
eyed,  penetrating  and  inquisitive,  is  inimical  to  their 
purpose.  Yet  Mr  de  la  Mare,  in  a  poem  called 
"The  Sleeper,"  succeeds  in  spinning  this  hush  of 
wondering  awe  out  of  the  full  light  of  a  summer  day. 
A  little  girl  (Ann,  a  charming  and  familiar  figure 
in  this  poetry  :  at  once  a  symbol  of  childhood  and 
a  very  human  child)  runs  into  the  house  to  her 
mother,  and  finds  her  asleep  in  her  chair.  That 
is  all  the  '  plot  '  ;  and  it  would  be  hard  to  find  an 
incident  slighter,  simpler  and  more  commonplace. 
But  out  of  this  homespun  material  the  poet  has 
somehow  conjured  an  eerie,  brooding,  impalpable 
presence  which  steals  upon  us  as  it  does  upon  the 
child  in  the  quiet  house  until,  like  her,  we  want  to 
creep  quickly  out  again. 

A  sense  of  the  supernatural,  that  constant  com- 
ponent of  the  romantic  temperament,  is  of  the 
essence  of  this  poetry.  The  manifestation  of  it  is 

76 


Walter  De  La  Mare 

something  more  than  a  trick  of  technique,  for  it 
has  its  origin  in  the  very  nature  of  the  poet's  genius. 
In  its  simpler  and  more  direct  expression,  it  seems 
to  spring  out  of  the  fearful  joy  which  this  type  of 
mind  experiences  in  contact  with  the  strange  and 
weird.  Again,  as  in  "  The  Witch,"  it  may  take  the 
form  of  a  bit  of  pure  fantasy,  transmitting  the  fascina- 
tion which  has  already  seized  the  poet  with  a  lurking 
smile  at  its  own  absurdity.  The  opening  stanzas 
tell  of  a  tired  old  witch  who  sits  down  to  rest  by  a 
churchyard  wall ;  and  who,  in  jerking  off  her  pack 
of  charms,  breaks  the  cord  and  spills  them  all  out 
on  the  ground  : 

And  out  the  dead  came  stumbling, 
From  every  rift  and  crack, 
Silent  as  moss,  and  plundered 
The  gaping  pack. 

They  wish  them,  three  times  over, 
Away  they  skip  full  soon  : 
Bat  and  Mole  and  Leveret, 
Under  the  rising  moon. 

Owl  and  Newt  and  Nightjar  : 
They  take  their  shapes  and  creep, 
Silent  as  churchyard  lichen, 
While  she  squats  asleep. 


77 


Contemporary   *Poets 

Names  may  be  writ ;  and  mounds  rise  ; 
Purporting,  Here  be  bones  : 
But  empty  is  that  churchyard 
Of  all  save  stones. 

Owl  and  Newt  and  Nightjar, 
Leveret,  Bat  and  Mole 
Haunt  and  call  in  the  twilight, 
Where  she  slept,  poor  soul. 

But  in  its  subtler  forms  the  supernatural  element 
of  this  poetry  is  more  complex  and  more  potent. 
And  it  would  seem  to  have  a  definite  relation  to  the 
poet's  philosophy.  Not  that  it  is  possible  to  trace 
an  outline  of  systematic  thought  in  work  like  this, 
where  every  constituent  is  milled  and  sifted  to 
delicate  fineness  and  fused  to  perfect  unity.  But 
if  we  follow  up  a  hint  here  and  there,  and  correlate 
them  with  the  author's  prose  fiction,  we  shall 
not  be  able  to  escape  the  suggestion  of  a  mystical 
basis  to  the  elusive  witchery  of  so  many  of  his 
poems.  We  shall  see  that  it  is  apparently  rooted 
in  an  extreme  sensitiveness  to  psychic  influences  : 
a  sensitiveness  through  which  he  becomes,  at  one 
end  of  the  scale,  acutely  aware  of  the  presence 
of  a  surrounding  spirit  world  ;  and  at  the  other, 
deeply  sympathetic  and  tender  to  subhuman 
creatures. 

No  crude  claim  is  made  on  behalf  of  any  mystical 

78 


Walter  De  La  Mare 

creed  ;  and  still  less  would  one  violate  the  fragile  and 
mysterious  charm  of  a  poem  like  "  The  Listeners " 
by  so-called  interpretation.  But  placed  beside  "  The 
Witch,"  it  is  clearly  seen  to  treat  the  supernatural 
on  a  higher  plane  :  it  is,  indeed,  a  piece  of  rare  and 
delicate  symbolism.  There  is  no  recourse  to  the 
ready  appeal  of  the  grotesque  and  the  marvellous  ; 
and  although  we  find  here  all  the  '  machinery  '  of  a 
supernatural  poem  in  the  older  romantic  manner — 
the  great  empty  house  standing  lonely  in  the  forest, 
moonlight  and  silence,  and  a  traveller  knocking 
unheeded  at  the  door — it  is  a  very  subtle  blending 
of  those  elements  which  has  gone  to  produce  the 
peculiar  effect  of  this  piece.  Twice  the  traveller 
knocks,  crying  :  "  Is  there  anybody  there  ?  "  but 
no  answer  comes  : 

.  .  .  only  a  host  of  phantom  listeners 

That  dwelt  in  the  lone  house  then 
Stood  listening  in  the  quiet  of  the  moonlight 

To  that  voice  from  the  world  of  men  : 
Stood  thronging  the  faint  moonbeams  on  the  dark  stair, 

That  goes  down  to  the  empty  hall, 
Hearkening  in  an  air  stirred  and  shaken 

By  the  lonely  Traveller's  call. 
And  he  felt  in  his  heart  their  strangeness, 

Their  stillness  answering  his  cry, 
While  his  horse  moved,  cropping  the  dark  turf, 

'Neath  the  starred  and  leafy  sky  ; 

79 


Contemporary   "Poets 

For  he  suddenly  smote  on  the  door,  even 
Louder,  and  lifted  his  head  : — 
'  Tell  them  I  came,  and  no  one  answered, 
That  I  kept  my  word,'  he  said. 

Running  through  the  piece — and  more  clearly 
perceived  when  the  whole  poem  is  read — is  the 
thread  of  melancholy  which  is  inseparably  woven 
into  all  the  poet's  work  of  this  kind.  And  it,  too, 
was  a  gift  of  his  fairy-godmother  when  he  was  born, 
light  in  texture  as  a  gossamer  and  spun  out  of  the 
softest  silk.  Melancholy  is  almost  too  big  a  word 
to  fit  the  thing  it  is,  for  there  is  no  gloom  in  it. 
It  is  like  the  silvery,  transparent  cloud  of  thought- 
fulness  which  passes  for  a  moment  over  a  happy  face  ; 
and  it  has  something  of  the  youthful  trick  of  playing 
with  the  idea  of  sadness.  Hence  come  the  early 
studies  of  "  Imogen  "  and  "  Ophelia,"  where  the 
poet  is  so  much  in  love  with  mournfulness  that  he 
revels  in  making  perfect  phrases  about  it. 

Can  death  haunt  silence  with  a  silver  sound  ? 
Can  death,  that  hushes  all  music  to  a  close, 
Pluck  one  sweet  wire  scarce -audible  that  trembles, 
As  if  a  little  child,  called  Purity, 
Sang  heedlessly  on  of  his  dear  Imogen  ? 

But  even  when  this  verse  approaches  a  degree 
nearer  to  the  reality  of  pain  it  is  still,  as  it  were, 
a  reflected  emotion  ;  and  there  is  no  poignance  in 
80 


Walter  De  La  Mare 

it.  It  is  a  winning  echo  of  sorrowfulness,  caught 
by  one  who  has  the  habit  of  turning  back  to  listen 
and  look.  Thus  the  studies  of  old  age  which 
we  sometimes  find  here  are  drawn  in  the  true 
romantic  manner,  with  a  sunset  halo  about  them, 
and  lightly  shadowed  by  wistfulness  and  faint  regret. 
And  the  thought  of  death,  when  it  is  allowed  to 
enter,  comes  as  caressingly  as  sleep.  The  little  poem 
called  "  All  That's  Past,"  where  the  poet  is  think- 
ing of  how  far  down  the  roots  of  all  things  go,  is 
only  one  example  of  many  where  melancholy  is 
toned  to  the  faintest  strain  of  pensive  sweetness  : 

Very  old  are  the  woods  ; 

And  the  buds  that  break 
Out  of  the  briar's  boughs, 

When  March  winds  wake, 
So  old  with  their  beauty  are— 

Oh,  no  man  knows 
Through  what  wild  centuries 

Roves  back  the  rose. 
•  •  •  •  • 

Very  old  are  we  men  ; 

Our  dreams  are  tales 
Told  in  dim  Eden 

By  Eve's  nightingales  ; 
We  walk  and  whisper  awhile, 

But,  the  day  gone  by, 
Silence  and  sleep  like  fields 

Of  amaranth  lie. 

F  8l 


Contemporary  'Poets 

So  we  might  continue  to  cull  passages  which 
represent  one  aspect  or  another  of  the  specific 
quality  of  Mr  de  la  Mare's  poetry.  The  choice 
is  rich,  for  there  is  a  remarkably  high  level  of 
inspiration  and  workmanship  here.  But  there  is 
a  danger  in  the  process,  especially  with  work  of  so 
fine  a  grain  ;  and  one  feels  bound  to  repeat  the 
warning  that  it  is  impossible  to  dissect  its  ultimate 
essence  in  this  way.  We  can  only  come  back  to  our 
comparison,  and  recalling  the  magical  music  of  poems 
like  "Arabia,"  "  Queen  Djenira,"  or  "Voices"— 
in  which  all  the  characteristics  noted  are  so  in- 
timately blended  that  it  is  impossible  to  disengage 
them — reiterate  the  fact  that  they  possess  the  same 
inexplicable  charm  as  the  romantic  work  of  Coleridge. 

But  that  reminds  us  of  the  difference,  and  all 
that  it  implies.  For,  after  all,  this  poet  is  a  roman- 
ticist of  the  twentieth  century,  and  not  of  the  late 
eighteenth.  It  is  true  that  his  genius  has  sur- 
prisingly kept  its  youth  (even  more,  that  is  to  say, 
than  the  poet  usually  does)  ;  but  it  is  a  nonage 
which  is  clearly  of  this  time  and  no  other.  The 
signs  of  this  are  clear  enough.  First  and  foremost, 
there  is  his  humanity — in  which  perhaps  all  the 
others  are  included,  and  with  which  are  certainly 
associated  the  simplicity  and  sincerity  of  his  diction. 
It  is  as  though  the  two  famous  principles  on  which 
82 


IValter  De  La  Mare 

the  Lyrical  Ballads  were  planned  had  in  the  fulness 
of  time  become  united  in  the  creative  impulse  of  a 
single  mind.  That  is  not  to  charge  Mr  de  la  Mare 
with  the  combined  weight  of  those  two  earlier 
giants,  of  course,  but  simply  to  observe  the  truth 
which  Rupert  Brooke  expressed  so  finely  when  he 
said  that  the  poetic  spirit  was  coming  back  "  to  its 
wider  home,  the  human  heart."  So  that  even  a 
born  romanticist  like  this  cannot  escape  ;  and  into 
the  chilly  enchantment  of  an  older  manner  warm 
sunlight  streams  and  fresh  airs  blow. 

Obvious  links  with  the  life-movement  of  his  time 
are  not  lacking,  though  as  mere  external  evidence 
they  are  relatively  unimportant.  Of  such  are 
the  synthesis  of  poetry  and  science  in  "  The  Happy 
Encounter" ;  and  the  detachment  suggested  in  "  Keep 
Innocency,"  where  the  poet  reveals  a  full  conscious- 
ness of  the  gulf  between  romance  and  reality.  But 
the  influence  goes  deeper  than  that.  It  is  because 
he  is  a  child  of  his  age  that  he  has  observed  children 
so  lovingly,  and  has  wrought  child-psychology  into 
his  verse  with  such  wonderful  accuracy.  That  also 
is  why  he  calls  so  gently  out  of fi  thin-strewn  memory 
such  a  homely  figure  as  the  shy  old  maid  in  her 
old-fashioned  parlour  ;  and  thence,  too,  comes  the 
sympathy  with  toiling  folk — considering  them 
characteristically  in  the  serene  mood  when  their 

83 


Contemporary   T^oefs 

work  is  done — which  underlies  such  pieces  as  "  Old 
Susan  "  and  "  Old  Ben  "  : 

Sad  is  old  Ben  Thistlewaite, 

Now  his  day  is  done, 
And  all  his  children 

Far  away  are  gone. 

He  sits  beneath  his  jasmined  porch, 

His  stick  between  his  knees, 
His  eyes  fixed  vacant 

On  his  moss-grown  trees. 


But  as  in  pale  high  autumn  skies 

The  swallows  float  and  play, 
His  restless  thoughts  pass  to  and  fro, 

But  nowhere  stay. 

Soft,  on  the  morrow,  ttap  are  gone  ; 

His  garden  then  wilJJpe 
Denser  and  shadier  anjl  greener, 

Greener  the  moss-grown  tree. 

From  the  same  humane  temper  come  the  poet's 
kindly  feeling  for  animals  and  his  affectionate 
understanding  of  them.  Over  and  over  again  its 
positive  aspect  finds  expression,  either  quaint, 
comical  or  tender.  And  twice  at  least  the  negative 
side  of  it  appears,  coming  as  near  to  rage  at  the 
wanton  destruction  of  animal  life  as  a  mellow  and 
balanced  temper  would  ever  get.  It  is  a  significant 


Walter  De  La   Mare 

fact  that  at  such  moments  he  takes  refuge  in  his 
humour — a  humour  by  turns  playful,  indignant, 
and  tender,  which,  growing  from  a  free  and  sym- 
pathetic contact  with  life,  holds  the  scale  counter- 
poised to  a  nicety  against  the  glamorous  romantic 
sense.  Thus  we  have  this  scrap  of  verse,  lightly 
throwing  off  a  mood  of  disgust  in  whimsical 
idiom  : 

I  can't  abear  a  Butcher, 

I  can't  abide  his  meat, 
The  ugliest  shop  of  all  is  his, 

The  ugliest  in  the  street ; 
Bakers'  are  warm,  cobblers'  dark, 

Chemists'  burn  watery  lights  ; 
But  oh,  the  sawdust  butcher's  shop, 

That  ugliest  of  sights  ! 


And  thus  in  "  Tit  for  Tat  "  we  find  this  apostrophe 
to  a  certain  Tom  Noddy,  just  returning  from  a  day 
of  '  sport '  with  his  gun  over  his  shoulder  : 

Wonder  I  very  much  do,  Tom  Noddy, 

If  ever,  when  you  are  a-roam, 
An  Ogre  from  space  will  stoop  a  lean  face, 

And  lug  you  home  : 

Lug  you  home  over  his  fence,  Tom  Noddy, 

Of  thorn-stocks  nine  yards  high, 
With  your  bent  knees  strung  round  his  old  iron  gun 

And  your  head  dan-dangling  by  : 

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Contemporary  ^Poets 

And  hang  you  up  stiff  on  a  hook,  Tom  Noddy, 

From  a  stone-cold  pantry  shelf, 
Whence  your  eyes  will  glare  in  an  empty  stare, 

Till  you  are  cooked  yourself  ! 

The  humour  there,  corresponding  in  degree  to 
the  anger  for  which  it  is  a  veil,  is  relatively  broad. 
There  are  various  subtler  forms  of  it,  however, 
and  one  will  be  found  in  a  charming  piece  which  is 
apt  to  our  present  point.  It  is  called  "  Nicholas 
Nye,"  and  tells  about  an  old  donkey  in  an  orchard. 
He  is  an  unprepossessing  creature,  lame  and  worn- 
out  :  just  a  bit  of  animal  jettison,  thrown  away 
here  to  end  his  days  in  peace.  And  the  poet  had 
a  great  friendship  with  him  : 

But  a  wonderful  gumption  was  under  his  skin, 

And  a  clear  calm  light  in  his  eye, 
And  once  in  a  while  :  he'd  smile  : — 

Would  Nicholas  Nye. 

Seem  to  be  smiling  at  me,  he  would, 

From  his  bush  in  the  corner,  of  may,— 
Bony  and  ownerless,  widowed  and  worn, 

Knobble-kneed,  lonely  and  grey  ; 
And  over  the  grass  would  seem  to  pass 

'Neath  the  deep  dark  blue  of  the  sky, 
Something  much  better  than  words  between  me 

And  Nicholas  Nye. 


86 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

THERE  are  a  dozen  books  by  this  author,  the 
work  of  about  a  dozen  years.  They  began 
to  appear  in  1902  ;  and  they  end,  so  far 
as  the  present  survey  is  concerned,  with  poems  that 
were  published  in  the  first  half  of  1914.  They  make 
a  good  pile,  a  considerable  achievement  in  bulk 
alone  ;  and  when  they  are  read  in  sequence,  they 
are  found  to  represent  a  growing  period  in  the  poet's 
mind  and  art  which  corresponds  to,  and  epitomises, 
the  transition  stage  out  of  which  English  poetry 
is  just  passing.  That  is  to  say,  in  addition  to  the 
growth  that  one  would  expect — the  ripening  and 
development  which  would  seem  to  be  a  normal  pro- 
cess— there  has  occurred  an  unexpected  thing  :  a 
complete  change  of  ideal,  with  steady  and  rapid  pro- 
gress in  the  new  direction.  So  that  if  Mr.  Gibson's 
later  books  were  compared  directly  with  the  early 
ones,  they  would  appear  to  be  by  an  entirely  different 
hand.  Place  Urlyn  the  Harper — which  was  first 
published — beside  a  late  play  called  Womenkind  or 
a  still  more  recent  dramatic  piece  called  Bloodybusb 
Edge ;  and  the  contrast  will  be  complete.  On 
the  one  hand  there  is  all  the  charm  of  romance, 
in  material  and  in  manner — but  very  little  else. 
On  the  other  hand  there  is  nothing  to  which  the 

87 


Contemporary  'Poets 

word  charm  will  strictly  apply  ;  an  almost  complete 
artistic  austerity  :  but  a  profound  and  powerful 
study  of  human  nature.  On  the  one  hand  there  is 
a  dainty  lyrical  form  appropriate  to  the  theme  : 
there  are  songs  like  this  one,  about  the  hopeless  love 
of  the  minstrel  for  the  young  queen  who  is  mated 
with  an  old  harsh  king  : 

I  sang  of  lovers,  and  she  praised  my  song, 

The  while  the  King  looked  on  her  with  cold  eyes, 

And  'twixt  them  on  the  throne  sat  mailed  wrong. 

I  sang  of  Launcelot  and  Guenevere, 

While  in  her  face  I  saw  old  sorrows  rise, 

And  throned  between  them  cowered  naked  Fear. 

I  sang  of  Tristram  and  La  Belle  Isoud, 
And  how  they  fled  the  anger  of  King  Mark 
To  live  and  love,  deep  sheltered  in  a  wood. 

Then  bending  low,  she  spake  sad  voiced  and  sweet, 
The  while  grey  terror  crouched  between  them  stark, 
"  Sing  now  of  Aucassin  and  Nicolete." 

The  later  work  cannot  be  so  readily  illustrated  : 
it  is  at  once  subtler  and  stronger,  and  depends  more 
upon  the  effect  of  the  whole  than  upon  any  single 
part.  But  for  the  sake  of  the  contrast  we  may  wrest 
a  short  passage  out  of  its  setting  in  Bloodybusb 
Edge.  A  couple  of  tramps  have  met  at  night  on 
88 


Wilfrid  Wilson   Gibson 

the  Scottish  border  ;  one  is  a  cockney  Londoner, 
a  bad  lot  with  something  sinister  about  him  and 
a  touch  of  mystery.  He  has  just  stumbled  out  of 
the  heather  on  to  the  road,  cursing  the  darkness 
and  the  loneliness  of  the  moor.  The  other,  a 
Border  man  to  whom  night  is  beautiful  and  the 
wild  landscape  a  familiar  friend,  protests  that 
it  is  not  dark,  that  the  sky  is  '  all  alive  with 
little  stars  '  : 

TRAMP.  .  .  .  Stars  ! 

Give  me  the  lamps  along  the  Old  Kent  Road  ; 
And  I'm  content  to  leave  the  stars  to  you. 
They're  well  enough  ;   but  hung  a  trifle  high 
For  walking  with  clean  boots.     Now  a  lamp  or  so  ... 

DICK.    If  it's  so  fine  and  brave,  the  Old  Kent  Road, 
How  is  it  you  came  to  leave  it  ? 

TRAMP.  ...  I'd  my  reasons.  .  .  . 

But  I  was  scared  :  the  loneliness  and  all ; 
The  quietness,  and  the  queer  creepy  noises  ; 
And  something  that  I  couldn't  put  a  name  to, 
A  kind  of  feeling  in  my  marrow-bones, 
As  though  the  great  black  hills  against  the  sky 
Had  come  alive  about  me  in  the  night, 
And  they  were  watching  me  ;  as  though  I  stood 
Naked,  in  a  big  room,  with  blind  men  sitting, 
Unseen,  all  round  me,  in  the  quiet  darkness, 
That  was  not  dark  to  them.     And  all  the  stars 
Were  eyeing  me  ;   and  whisperings  in  the  heather 
Were  like  cold  water  trickling  down  my  spine  : 


Contemporary  Toets 

Putting  an  early  and  a  late  book  side  by  side  in 
this  way,  the  contrast  is  astonishing.  And  it  is  not 
an  unfair  method  of  comparison,  because  when  the 
new  ideal  appears  it  strikes  suddenly  into  the  work, 
and  sharply  differentiates  it  at  once  from  all  that  had 
been  written  before.  Like  the  larger  movement 
which  it  so  aptly  illustrates,  the  change  is  conscious, 
deliberate,  and  full  of  significance  ;  and  it  is  the 
cardinal  fact  in  this  author's  poetical  career.  It 
marks  the  stage  at  which  he  came  to  grips  with 
reality  :  when  he  brought  his  art  into  relation  with 
life  :  when  the  making  of  poetic  beauty  as  an  end 
in  itself  could  no  longer  content  him ;  and  the 
social  conscience,  already  prompting  contemporary 
thought,  quickened  in  him  too. 

Humanity  was  the  new  ideal  :  humanity  at  bay 
and  splendidly  fighting.  It  appeared  first  in  the 
two  volumes  of  1907  as  dramatic  studies  from  the 
lives  of  shepherd-folk.  Four  books  had  preceded 
these,  in  which  the  texture  of  the  verse  was  woven 
of  old  romance  and  legend.  Another  book  was  yet 
to  come,  The  Web  of  Life,  in  which  the  prettiness 
of  that  kind  of  romanticism  would  blossom  into 
absolute  beauty.  But  the  new  impulse  grew  from 
the  date  of  Stone/olds ;  and  when  the  first  part  of 
Daily  Bread  appeared,  the  impulse  had  become  a 
reasoned  principle.  In  the  poem  which  prefaces 

90 


Wilfrid   Wilson    Gibson 

that  volume  it  comes  alive,  realizes  itself  and  finds 
utterance  in  terms  which  express  much  more  than 
an  individual  experience.  I  quote  it  for  that  reason. 
The  immediate  thought  has  dignity  and  the  personal 
note  is  engaging.  There  is,  too,  peculiar  interest 
in  the  clarity  and  precision  with  which  it  speaks, 
albeit  unconsciously,  for  the  changing  spirit  in 
English  poetry.  But  the  final  measure  of  the  poem 
is  the  touch  of  universality  that  is  latent  within  it. 
For  here  we  have  the  expression  of  not  only  a  law 
of  development  by  which  the  poet  must  be  bound, 
and  not  only  a  poetical  synthesis  of  the  most  im- 
portant intellectual  movement  of  this  generation, 
but  an  experience  through  which  every  soul  must 
pass,  if  and  when  it  claims  its  birthright  in  the  human 
family. 

As  one,  at  midnight,  wakened  by  the  call 
Of  golden-plovers  in  their  seaward  flight, 
Who  lies  and  listens,  as  the  clear  notes  fall 
Through  tingling  silence  of  the  frosty  night— 
Who  lies  and  listens,  till  the  last  note  fails, 
And  then,  in  fancy,  faring  with  the  flock 
Far  over  slumbering  hills  and  dreaming  dales, 
Soon  hears  the  surges  break  on  reef  and  rock  ; 
And,  hearkening,  till  all  sense  of  self  is  drowned 
Within  the  mightier  music  of  the  deep, 
No  more  remembers  the  sweet  piping  sound 
That  startled  him  from  dull,  undreaming  sleep  : 

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Contemporary  'Poets 

So  I,  first  waking  from  oblivion,  heard, 
With  heart  that  kindled  to  the  call  of  song, 
The  voice  of  young  life,  fluting  like  a  bird, 
And  echoed  that  light  lilting  ;   till,  ere  long, 
Lured  onward  by  that  happy,  singing-flight, 
I  caught  the  stormy  summons  of  the  sea, 
And  dared  the  restless  deeps  that,  day  and  night, 
Surge  with  the  life-song  of  humanity. 

Being  wise  after  the  event,  one  can  discover 
auguries  of  that  change  in  the  very  early  work. 
There  is,  for  example,  a  group  of  little  poems  called 
Faring  South,  studied  directly  from  peasant  life  in 
the  south  of  France.  They  indicate  that  even  at 
that  time  an  awakening  sympathy  with  toiling  folk 
had  begun  to  guide  his  observation  ;  and  they  are 
in  any  "case  a  very  different  record  of  European 
travel  from  that  of  the  mere  poetaster.  There  are 
studies  of  a  stonebreaker,  a  thresher,  a  ploughman  ; 
there  is  a  veracious  little  picture  of  a  housemother, 
returning  home  at  the  end  of  market-day  laden, 
tired  and  dusty  ;  but  happy  to  be  under  her  own 
vine-porch  once  more.  And  most  interesting  of  all 
the  group,  there  is  a  shepherd,  the  forerunner  of 
robuster  shepherds  in  later  books,  and  evidently  a 
figure  which  has  for  this  author  a  special  attraction. 

With  folded  arms,  against  his  staff  he  stands, 
Sun-soaking,  rapt,  within  the  August  blaze 

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Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

The  while  his  sheep  with  moving  rustle  graze 
The  lean,  parched  undergrowth  of  stubble  lands. 

Indifferent  'neath  the  low  blue-laden  sky 
He  gazes  fearless  in  the  eyes  of  noon  ; 
And  earth,  because  he  craves  of  her  no  boon, 
Yields  him  deep-breasted,  sun-steeped  destiny. 

But  these  characters  are  not  living  people,  they 
are  types  rather  than  individuals,  and  idealized  a 
little.  They  are,  as  it  were,  seen  from  a  distance, 
in  passing,  and  in  a  golden  light.  Years  were  to  pass 
before  knowledge  and  insight  could  envisage  them 
completely  and  a  dramatic  sense  could  endow  them 
with  life.  Meantime  the  more  characteristic  quali- 
ties of  this  early  work  were  to  develop  indepen- 
dently. The  lyrical  power  of  it,  in  particular,  was 
to  enjoy  its  flowering  time,  revelling  in  the  sweet 
melancholy  of  old  unhappy  love  stories,  in  courts 
and  rose-gardens,  kings  and  queens,  knights  and 
ladies  and  lute-players.  Perhaps  the  most  charming 
examples  in  this  kind  are  "The  Songs  of  Queen 
Averlaine."  Here  are  a  couple  of  stanzas  from  one 
of  them,  in  which  the  queen  is  brooding  sadly  over 
the  thought  of  her  lost  love  and  lost  youth  : 

Spring  comes  no  more  for  me  :  though  young  March  blow 
To  flame  the  larches,  and  from  tree  to  tree 

93 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

The  green  fire  leap,  till  all  the  woodland,  glow — 
Though  every  runnel,  filled  to  overflow, 
Bear  sea-ward,  loud  and  brown  with  melted  snow, 
Spring  comes  no  more  for  me  ! 


Spring  comes  no  more  for  me  :  though  May  will  shake 
White  flame  of  hawthorn  over  all  the  lea, 
Till  every  thick-set  hedge  and  tangled  brake 
Puts  on  fresh  flower  of  beauty  for  her  sake  ; 
Though  all  the  world  from  winter-sleep  awake, 
Spring  comes  no  more  for  me  ! 

They  are  graceful  songs,  and  their  glamour  will 
not  fail  so  long  as  there  remain  lovers  to  read  them. 
The  critic  is  disarmed  by  their  ingenuousness  :  he 
is  constrained  to  take  them  as  they  stand,  with 
their  warmth  and  colour,  their  sweet  music  and 
the  occasional  flashes  of  observed  truth  (like  the 
March  runnels  of  this  poem)  which  redeem  them 
from  total  unreality.  The  reward  lies  close  ahead. 
For  even  on  this  theme  of  love,  and  still  in  the  lyric 
mood,  sanity  soon  triumphs.  It  heralds  its  victory 
with  a  laugh,  and  the  air  is  lightened  at  once  from 
the  scented  gloom  of  romanticism.  "  Sing  no  more 
songs  of  lovers  dead,"  it  cries,  sound  and  strong 
enough  now  to  make  fun  of  itself. 

We  are  no  lovers,  pale  with  dreams, 
Who  languish  by  Lethean  streams. 

94 


Wilfrid  Wilson    Gibson 

Upon  our  bodies  warm  day  gleams  ; 
And  love  that  tingles  warm  and  red 
From  sole  of  foot  to  crown  of  head 
Is  lord  of  all  pale  lovers  dead  ! 

The  volume  from  which  that  stanza  is  taken, 
The  Web  of  Life,  contains  this  poet's  finest  lyrics. 
From  the  standpoint  of  art  nothing  that  he  has 
done — and  he  is  always  a  scrupulous  artist — can 
surpass  it  ;  and  the  seeker  whose  single  quest 
is  beauty,  need  go  no  further  down  the  list 
of  Mr  Gibson's  works.  There  are  some  perfect 
things  in  the  book  :  poems  like  "  Song,"  "  The 
Mushroom  Gatherers  "  and  "  The  Silence,"  in  which 
the  early  grace  and  felicity  survive  ;  and  where  the 
lyric  ecstasy  is  deepened  by  thought  and  winged 
by  emotion.  In  one  sense,  therefore,  although 
this  volume  is  only  midway  through  the  period 
we  are  concerned  with,  it  has  attained  finality. 
We  ought  to  pause  on  it.  We  see  that  it  culminates 
and  closes  the  *  happy  singing-flight  '  with  which 
this  career  began.  We  realize,  too,  that  it  has 
absolute  value,  as  poetry,  by  virtue  of  which  many 
a  good  judge  might  rank  it  higher  than  its  remarkable 
successors.  And,  indeed,  it  is  hard  to  break  away 
from  its  spell.  But  when  we  judge  The  Web  of 
Life  relatively,  when  we  place  it  back  in  the  proper 
niche  amongst  its  kindred  volumes,  its  importance 

95 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

seems  to  dwindle  suddenly.  Beside  the  later  books, 
it  grows  almost  commonplace ;  we  perceive  its 
charm  to  be  of  the  conventional  kind  of  the  whole 
order  of  regular  English  poetry  to  which  it  belongs. 
That  is  to  say,  though  there  is  no  sign  that  the 
work  has  been  directly  modelled  upon  the  poets 
of  an  earlier  generation,  its  characteristics  relate 
it  directly  to  them.  It  is  consciously — too  con- 
sciously— poetical.  There  are  pieces  which  remind 
us  of  Keats  or  the  younger  Tennyson.  Here  is  a 
stanza  from  the  poem  called  "Beauty  "  which  might 
have  been  the  inspiration  of  the  whole  book  : 

With  her  alone  is  immortality  ; 

For  still  men  reverently 

Adore  within  her  shrine  : 

The  sole  immortal  time  has  not  cast  down, 

She  wields  a  power  yet  more  divine 

Than  when  of  old  she  rose  from  out  the  sea 

Of  night,  with  starry  crown. 

Though  all  things  perish,  Beauty  never  dies. 

Or  there  are  poems  in  which  passion  trembles 
under  a  fine  restraint,  as  in  "  Friends  " : 

Yet,  are  we  friends  :   the  gods  have  granted  this. 
Withholding  wine,  they  brimmed  for  us  the  cup 
With  cool,  sweet  waters,  ever  welling  up, 
That  we  might  drink,  and,  drinking,  dream  of  bliss. 
•  •  •  •  • 

96 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

O  gods,  in  your  cold  mercy,  merciless, 
Heed  lest  time  raze  your  thrones  ;   and  at  the  sign. 
The  cool,  sweet -welling  waters  turn  to  wine  ; 
The  spark  to  day,  and  dearth  to  bounteousness. 

And  there  is  the  group  of  classical  pieces  at  the 
end  of  the  book,  in  which  one  regretfully  passes  over 
the  flexible  blank- verse  of  "  Helen  in  Rhodes  "  and 
"  The  Mariners,"  to  choose  a  still  more  characteristic 
passage  from  "  A  Lament  for  Helen  "  : 

Helen  has  fallen  :  she  for  whom  Troy  fell 
Has  fallen,  even  as  the  fallen  towers. 
O  wanderers  in  dim  fields  of  asphodel, 
Who  spilt  for  her  the  wine  of  earthly  hours, 
With  you  for  evermore 
By  Lethe's  darkling  shore 
Your  souls'  desire  shall  dwell. 


But  we  who  sojourn  yet  in  earthly  ways  ; 
How  shall  we  sing,  now  Helen  lieth  dead  ? 
Break  every  lyre  and  burn  the  withered  bays, 
For  song's  sweet  solace  is  with  Helen  fled. 
Let  sorrow's  silence  be 
The  only  threnody 
O'er  beauty's  fallen  head. 

But  this  book,  which  is  so  good  an  example  of 
poetic  art  in  the  older  English  manner,  is  not  Mr 
Gibson's  distinguishing  achievement.  That  came 

c  97 


Contemporary    'Poets 

immediately  afterwards,  and  was  the  outcome  of 
the  changed  ideal  which  we  have  already  noted. 
The  Web  of  Life  may  be  said  to  belong  to  a 
definite  school — though  to  be  sure  its  relation  to 
that  school  is  not  discipular.  The  books  which 
follow  have  no  such  relation  :  they  stand  alone  and 
refuse  to  be  classified,  either  in  subject  or  in  form. 
And  while  the  earlier  work  would  seem  to  claim 
its  author  for  the  nineteenth  century,  in  Daily 
Bread  he  is  newborn  a  twentieth-century  poet  of 
full  stature. 

The  most  striking  evidence  of  the  change  is  in  the 
subject-matter.  Daily  Bread,  like  Fires,  is  in  three 
parts,  and  each  of  them  contains  six  or  seven  pieces. 
There  is  thus  a  total  of  about  forty  poems,  every  one 
of  which  is  created  out  of  an  episode  from  the  lives 
of  the  working  poor.  Thus  we  find  a  young 
countryman,  workless  and  destitute  in  a  London 
garret,  joined  by  his  village  sweetheart  who  refuses 
to  leave  him  to  starve  alone.  A  farm  labourer  and 
his  wife  are  rising  wearily  in  the  cold  dawn  to  earn 
bread  for  the  six  sleeping  children.  There  are 
miners  and  quarrymen  in  some  of  the  many  dangers 
of  their  calling,  and  their  womenfolk  enduring 
privation,  suspense  and  bereavement  with  tireless 
courage.  There  is  a  stoker,  dying  from  burns  that 
he  has  sustained  at  the  furnace,  whose  young  wife 


Wilfrid  Wilson   Gibson 

retorts    with    passionate    bitterness    to    a    hint    of 
compensation  : 

Money  .  .  .  woman  .  .  .  money  ! 

I  want  naught  with  their  money. 

I  want  my  husband, 

And  my  children's  father. 

Let  them  pitch  all  their  money  in  the  furnace 

Where  he  ... 

I  wouldn't  touch  a  penny  ; 

'Twould  burn  my  fingers. 

Money  .  .  . 

For  him  ! 

There  are  fishermen  in  peril  of  the  sea  ;  the  printer, 
the  watchman,  the  stonebreaker,  the  lighthouse- 
keeper,  the  riveter,  the  sailor,  the  shopkeeper  ;  there 
are  school-children  and  factory  girls  ;  outcasts, 
tramps  and  gipsies  ;  and  a  splendid  company  of 
women — mothers  in  childbirth  and  child-death, 
sisters,  wives  and  sweethearts — more  heroic  in  their 
obscure  suffering  and  toil  than  the  noblest  figure 
of  ancient  tragedy.  \Vith_deJibeiatfi_  intention, 
therefore,  the  poet  has  set  himselLjtQ  represent 
contemporary  industrial  life  :  the  strata  at  the  base 
of  our  civilization.  He  has,  as  it  were,  won  free  at 
a  leap  »from  illusion,  from  Romanticism,  and  the 
jealous,  tyrannical  instinct  for  Art  as  Art.  Life  is 
the  inspiration  now,  and  truth  the  objective.  The 
facts  of  the  workers'  lives  are  carefully  observed, 

99 


Contemporary  *Poets 

realized  in  all  their  significance  and  faithfully 
recorded.  Sympathy  and  penetration  go  hand  in 
hand.  Personal  faults  and  follies,  superstitions  and 
vices,  play  their  part  in  these  little  dramas,  no  less 
than  the  social  wrongs  under  which  the  people 
labour.  And  the  conception,  in  its  balance  and 
comprehensiveness,  is  really  great  ;  for  while  on 
the  one  hand  there  is  an  humiliating  indictment 
of  our  civilization  (implicit,  of  course,  but  none  the 
less  complete)  on  the  other  hand  there  is  a  proud 
vindication  of  the  invincible  human  spirit. 

Viewed  steadily  thus,  by  a  poetic  genius  which 
has  subdued  the  conventions  of  its  art,  such  themes 
are  shown  to  possess  a  latent  but  inalienable  power 
to  exalt  the  mind.  They  are  therefore  of  the  genuine 
stuff  of  art,  needing  only  the  formative  touch  of  the 
poet  to  evoke  beauty.  And  thus  we  find  that 
although  the  normal  process  seems  to  have  been 
reversed  here  :  although  the  poet  has  sought  truth 
first — in  event,  in  character  and  in  environment — 
beauty  has  been  nevertheless  attained  ;  and  of  a 
type  more  vital  and  complete  than  that  evoked  by 
the  statelier  themes  of  tradition. 

As  might  have  been  expected  the  new  material 
and  method  have  directly  influenced  form ;  and 
hence  arises  another  distinction  of  these  later  works. 
The  three  parts  of  Daily  Bread  and  the  play  called 
100 


Wilfrid  Wilson   Gibson 

Womenkind  are  the  extreme  example  ;  and  their 
verse  is  probably  unique  in  English  poetry.  It  has- 
been  evolved  out  of  the  actual  substance  on  which 
the  poet  is  working  ;  directly  moulded  by  the  nature 
of  the  life  that  he  has  chosen  to  present.  The 
poems  here  are  dramatic  ;  and  whether  the  element 
of  dialogue  or  of  narrative  prevail,  the  language  is 
always  the  living  idiom  of  the  persons  who  are 
speaking.  It  is  nervous,  supple,  incisive  :  not,  of 
course,  with  much  variety  or  colour,  since  the 
vocabulary  of  such  people  could  not  be  large  and 
its  colour  might  often  be  too  crude  for  an  artist's 
use.  Selection  has  played  its  part,  in  words  as  in 
incidents  ;  but  although  anything  in  the  nature  of 
dialect  has  been  avoided,  we  are  convinced  as  we 
read  that  this  is  indeed  the  speech  of  labouring  folk. 
We  can  even  recognize,  in  a  light  touch  such  as  an 
occasional  vocative,  that  they  are  the  sturdy  folk 
of  the  North  country.  There  is  a  dialogue  called 
"  On  the  Road  "  which  illustrates  that,  as  well  as 
more  important  things.  Just  under  the  surface  of 
it  lies  the  problem  of  unemployment  :  a  young 
couple  forced  to  go  on  tramp,  with  their  infant 
child,  because  the  husband  has  lost  his  job.  That, 
however,  inheres  in  the  episode  :  it  is  not  em- 
phasized, nor  even  formulated,  as  a  problem.  The 
appeal  of  the  poem  is  in  its  fine  delineation  of 

101 


Contemporary  *Poets 

character,  the  interplay  of  emotion,  the  rapid  and 
telling  dialogue — the  pervasive  humanitarian  spirit ; 
and,  once  again,  an  exact  and  full  perception  of 
the  woman's  point  of  view.  Mr  Gibson  is  a  poet 
of  his  time  in  this  as  well — in  his  large  com- 
prehension and  generous  acknowledgment  of  the 
feminine  part  in  the  scheme  of  things.  I  do  not 
quote  to  illustrate  that,  because  it  is  an  almost 
constant  factor  in  his  work.  But  I  give  a  passage 
in  which  the  Northern  flavour  is  distinctly  per- 
ceptible, in  addition  to  qualities  which  are  limited 
to  no  locality — the  kindliness  of  the  poor  to  each 
other  and  their  native  courtesy.  An  old  stone- 
breaker  has  just  passed  the  starving  couple  by  the 
roadside  and,  divining  the  extremity  they  are  at, 
he  turns  back  to  them  : 

Fine  morning,  mate  and  mistress  ! 

Might  you  be  looking  for  a  job,  my  lad  ? 

Well  .  .  .  there's  a  heap  of  stones  to  break,  down  yonder. 

I  was  just  on  my  way  .  .  • 

But  I  am  old  ; 

And,  maybe,  a  bit  idle  ; 

And  you  look  young, 

And  not  afraid  of  work, 

Or  Fm  an  ill  judge  of  a  workman's  hands. 

And  when  the  job's  done,  lad, 

There'll  be  a  shilling. 


102 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

Nay,  but  there's  naught  to  thank  me  for. 

I'm  old  ; 

And  I've  no  wife  and  children, 

And  so,  don't  need  the  shilling. 


Well,  the  heap's  down  yonder — 

There,  at  the  turning. 

Ah,  the  bonnie  babe  ! 

We  had  no  children,  mistress. 

And  what  can  any  old  man  do  with  shillings, 

With  no  one  but  himself  to  spend  them  on — - 

An  idle,  good-for-nothing,  lone  old  man  ? 

The  curious  structure  of  the  verse  is  apparent 
at  a  glance — the  irregular  pattern,  the  extreme 
variation  in  the  length  of  the  line,  the  absence  of 
rhyme  and  the  strange  metrical  effects.  It  is  a 
new  poetical  instrument,  having  little  outward 
resemblance  to  the  grace  and  dignity  of  regular 
forms.  Its  unfamiliarity  may  displease  the  eye  and 
the  ear  at  first,  but  it  is  not  long  before  we  perceive 
the  design  which  controls  its  apparent  waywardness, 
and  recognize  its  fitness  to  express  the  life  that  the 
poet  has  chosen  to  depict.  For  it  suggests,  as  no 
rhyme  or  regular  measure  could,  the  ruggedness 
of  this  existence  and  the  characteristic  utterance  of 
its  people.  No  symmetrical  verse,  with  its  sense 
of  something  complete,  precise  and  clear,  could 
convey  such  an  impression  as  this — of  speech 

103 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

struggling  against  natural  reticence  to  express  the 
turmoil  of  thought  and  emotion  in  an  untrained 
mind.  Mr  Gibson  has  invented  a  metrical  form 
which  admirably  produces  that  effect,  without 
condescending  to  a  crude  realism.  He  has  made 
the  worker  articulate,  supplying  just  the  coherence 
and  lucidity  which  art  demands,  but  preserving, 
in  this  irregular  outline,  in  the  plain  diction  and 
simple  phrasing,  an  acute  sense  of  reality.  Here  is  a 
fragment  of  conversation,  one  of  many  similar,  in 
which  this  verse  is  found  to  be  a  perfect  medium 
of  the  idea.  A  wife  has  been  struck  by  her  husband 
in  a  fit  of  passion  :  she  has  been  trying  to  hide  from 
her  mother  the  cause  of  the  blow,  but  she  is  still 
weak  from  the  effects  of  it  and  has  not  lied  skilfully. 
Her  mother  gently  protests  that  she  is  trying  to 
screen  her  husband  : 

Nay  !  There's  naught  to  screen. 
Twas  I  that  .  .  .  Nay  ! 
And,  if  he's  hot,  at  times, 
You  know  he's  much  to  try  him  ; 
The  racket  that  he  works  in,  all  day  long, 
Would  wear  the  best  of  tempers. 
Why,  mother,  who  should  know  as  well  as  you 
How  soon  a  riveter  is  done  ? 
The  hammers  break  a  man,  before  his  time  ; 
And  father  was  a  shattered  man  at  forty ; 
And  Philip's  thirty-five  ; 
104 


Hrilfrid  Wilson   Gibson 

And  if  he's  failed  a  bit  ... 

And,  sometimes,  over-hasty 

Well,  I  am  hasty,  too  ; 

You  know  my  temper  ;   no  one  knows  it  better. 

Occasionally,  it  is  true,  the  principle  on  which 
the  verse  is  built  is  too  strictly  applied  :  the  phrase- 
ology is  abrupt  beyond  the  required  effect  ;  and 
the  lines,  instead  of  following  a  rule  which  seems 
to  measure  their  length  by  a  natural  pause,  are 
broken  arbitrarily.  Speaking  broadly,  however,  it 
is  fitted  to  such  themes  as  those  of  Daily  Bread — 
though  one  is  not  so  sure  about  it  in  a  poem  like 
"  Akra  the  Slave."  This  is  a  delightful  narrative, 
akin  in  subject  to  the  earlier  work,  and  belonging 
to  that  period  much  more  than  to  the  date  at 
which  it  was  published,  1910.  One  cannot  linger 
upon  it,  nor  even  upon  the  more  important  work 
which  followed,  and  is  happily  still  continuing — 
more  important  because  it  indicates  development 
and  marked  progress  along  the  new  lines.  The 
three  parts  of  Fires  carry  forward  the  inspiration  of 
Daily  Bread,  but  now  in  narrative  style,  permitting 
therefore  a  relaxation  of  the  austere  dramatic  truth 
of  the  dialogue  form.  The  verse  is  modified 
accordingly,  as  will  be  seen  in  this  passage  from 
"  The  Shop  "  :  A  workman  has  entered  his  favourite 
shop — the  little  general-store  of  a  poor  neighbour- 

105 


Contemporary  *Poets 

hood — to  buy  his  evening  paper.  But  he  is  not 
attended  to  immediately  ;  and  a  sickly  little  girl 
who  has  come  for  a  fraction  of  a  loaf  and  a  screw  of 
tea,  is  also  waiting.  The  shopkeeper  is  engrossed 
with  a  parcel  from  the  country — from  a  little 
convalescent  son  who  has  gone  for  the  first  time  to 
his  father's  native  place  : 

Next  night,  as  I  went  in,  I  caught 

A  strange,  fresh  smell.     The  postman  had  just  brought 

A  precious  box  from  Cornwall,  and  the  shop 

Was  lit  with  primroses,  that  lay  atop 

A  Cornish  pasty,  and  a  pot  of  cream  : 

And  as,  with  gentle  hands,  the  father  lifted 

The  flowers  his  little  son  had  plucked  for  him, 

He  stood  a  moment  in  a  far-off  dream, 

As  though  in  glad  remembrances  he  drifted 

On  Western  seas  :   and,  as  his  eyes  grew  dim, 

He  stooped,  and  buried  them  in  deep,  sweet  bloom  : 

Till,  hearing,  once  again,  the  poor  child's  cough, 

He  served  her  hurriedly,  and  sent  her  off, 

Quite  happily,  with  thin  hands  filled  with  flowers. 

And,  as  I  followed  to  the  street,  the  gloom 

Was  starred  with  primroses  ;   and  many  hours 

The  strange,  shy  flickering  surprise 

Of  that  child's  keen,  enchanted  eyes 

Lit  up  my  heart,  and  brightened  my  dull  room. 

Music  has  come  in  again,  in  frequent  and  some- 
times intricate  rhyme  ;  in  metrical  lightness  and 
variety  ;  in  a  fuller  and  more  harmonious  language. 
106 


Wilson    Gibson 

The  spirit  of  this  later  work  remains  humanitarian, 
but  it  is  not  centred  now  solely  upon  the  tragic 
aspects  of  the  workers'  lives.  A  wider  range  is 
taken,  and  comedy  enters,  with  an  accession  of 
urbanity  from  which  the  poems  gain  a  mellower 
note.  The  world  of  nature,  too,  banished  for  a 
time  in  the  exclusive  study  of  humanity,  returns 
to  enrich  this  later  poetry  with  a  store  of  loving 
observation,  an  intimate  knowledge  of  wild  creatures, 
and  the  refreshing  sense  of  a  healthful  open-air 
life  in  which,  over  a  deep  consciousness  of  sterner 
things,  plays  a  jolly  comradeship  with  wind  and 
weather. 


107 


Ralph  Hodgson 

THE  format  of  Mr  Hodgson's  published 
work  is  almost  as  interesting  as  the  poetry 
itself— and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal. 
For  all  of  his  poetry  that  matters  (there  is  an 
earlier,  experimental  volume  which  is  not  notable) 
was  issued  during  the  two  or  three  years  preceding 
the  War  in  the  form  of  chapbook  and  broadside. 

It  was  a  new  publishing  venture,  quietly  launched 
At  the  Sign  of  Flying  Fame,  and  piloted  now  through 
the  rapids  of  a  larger  success  by  the  Poetry  Book- 
shop. In  a  sense,  of  course,  it  is  not  a  new  thing 
at  all,  but  a  revival  of  the  means  by  which  ballad 
and  romance  were  conveyed  into  the  hands  of  the 
people  a  couple  of  centuries  ago.  Yet  it  is  no  imita- 
tion of  a  quaint  style  for  the  sake  of  its  picturesque- 
ness,  nor  the  haphazard  choice  of  a  vehicle  for  the 
author  to  his  public,  irrespective  of  its  suitability  to 
either ;  nor  was  it  a  mere  bid  for  popular  favour. 

The  peculiar  interest  of  the  revival  lies  in  the 
fact  that  it  is  part  of  the  larger  movement,  the 
renascent  spirit  of  poetry  which  has  been  visibly 
stirring  the  face  of  the  waters  in  these  past  few 
years.  The  reappearance  of  the  chapbook  syn- 
chronized with  that,  and  is  closely  related  with  it. 
For  it  is  found  to  be  as  well  fitted  to  the  form 
108 


Ralph  Hodgson 

and  the  content  of  the  newest  poetry  as  it  is  suited 
to  the  need  of  the  newest  audience.  On  the  one 
hand  it  brings  to  the  freshly  awakened  public  a 
book  which  is  cheap  enough  to  acquire  and  small 
enough  readily  to  become  a  familiar  possession  of 
the  mind.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  suited  perfectly 
to  the  simple  themes  and  metrical  effects  of  the 
work  hitherto  published  in  this  form ;  and  is 
designed  only  to  include  small  poems  of  unques- 
tioned excellence.  Here  may  be  perceived  the 
more  important  factors  which  go  to  the  formation 
of  literary  taste ;  and  while  one  would  estimate 
that  the  educational  value  of  these  little  books  is 
therefore  high,  meeting  aptly  the  need  of  the 
novice  in  poetry,  it  is  clear  that  the  discriminating 
mind  also  is  likely  to  find  them  satisfying. 

Mr  Hodgson's  work,  then,  will  be  found  in  four 
or  five  chapbooks  and  a  thin  sheaf  of  broadsides. 
The  chapbooks  are  small  and  slim,  and  could  all 
be  picked  up  between  the  thumb  and  finger  of 
one  hand.  They  are  wrapped  in  cheery  yellow 
and  decorated  with  impressionistic  sketches  which, 
nine  times  out  of  ten,  really  help  the  illusion 
that  the  poet  is  creating.  The  broadsides — there 
are  about  a  dozen  of  them — are  long  loose  sheets, 
each  containing  a  single  poem  similarly  deco- 
rated. 

109 


Contemporary  *Poets 

The  sum  of  the  work  is  thus  quite  small.  Perhaps 
there  are  not  more  than  five-and-twenty  pieces 
altogether,  none  very  long,  and  amongst  them  an 
occasional  miniature  of  a  single  stanza.  Probably 
the  format  in  which  the  author  has  chosen  to  appear 
has  had  an  effect  in  restricting  his  production. 
That  would  be  a  possible  result  of  the  vigorous 
selection  exercised  and  the  limits  imposed  in  space 
and  style.  But  there  are  signs  that  he  would 
not  have  been  in  any  case  a  ready  writer — 
the  sense  these  lyrics  convey  of  having  waited 
on  inspiration  until  the  veritable  moment  shone, 
finding  thought  and  feeling,  imagination  and  tech- 
nique, ripe  to  express  it.  And  it  was  by  those 
signs  that  watchers  knew  and  acclaimed  this 
author  for  a  poet,  despite  the  slender  bulk  of 
his  accomplishment,  before  the  Royal  Society  of 
Literature  had  awarded  to  his  work  the  Polignac 
prize. 

The  two  poems  which  gained  the  prize  are  "  The 
Bull "  and  "  The  Song  of  Honour."  Each  occupies 
a  whole  chapbook  to  itself,  and  therefore  must  be 
accounted,  for  this  poet,  of  considerable  length. 
They  are,  indeed,  the  most  important  of  his  poems. 
And  if  one  does  not  immediately  add  that  they  are 
also  the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  charming, 
the  reason  is  something  more  than  an  aversion  from 
no 


Ralph  Hodgson 

dogma  and  the  superlative  mood.  For  the  artistic 
level  of  all  this  work  is  high,  and  it  would  be 
difficult,  on  a  critical  method,  to  single  out  the 
finest  piece.  The  decision  would  be  susceptible, 
even  more  than  poetical  judgments  usually  are,  to 
mood  and  individual  bias.  One  person,  inclining 
to  the  smaller,  gem-like  forms  of  verse,  will  find 
pieces  by  Mr  Hodgson  to  flatter  his  fancy.  This 
poet  has,  indeed,  a  gift  of  concentrated  expression, 
before  which  one  is  compelled  to  pause.  There 
are  tiny  lyrics  here  which  comprise  immensities. 
The  facile  imp  that  lurks  round  every  corner  for  the 
poor  trader  in  words  whispers  c  epigram  '  as  we  read 
"  Stupidity  Street "  or  "The  Mystery  "  or  "  Reason 
has*  Moons."  But  is  the  specific  quality  of  these 
delicate  creations  really  epigrammatic  ?  No,  it 
would  appear  to  be  something  more  gracious  and 
more  subtly  blent  with  emotion  •  having  implica- 
tions that  lead  beyond  the  region  of  stark  thought, 
and  an  impulse  far  other  than  to  sharpen  a  point. 
"  Stupidity  Street  "  is  an  example  : 

I  saw  with  open  eyes 
Singing  birds  sweet 
Sold  in  the  shops 
For  the  people  to  eat, 
Sold  in  the  shops  of 
Stupidity  Street. 

Ill 


Contemporary   ^Poets 

I  saw  in  vision 
The  worm  in  the  wheat, 
And  in  the  shops  nothing 
For  people  to  eat  ; 
Nothing  for  sale  in 
Stupidity  Street. 

Analysis  of  that  will  discover  an  anatomy  complete 
enough  to  those  who  enjoy  that  kind  of  dissection. 
There  are  bones  of  logic  and  organic  heat  sufficient 
of  themselves  for  wonder  how  the  thing  can  be 
done  in  so  small  a  compass.  And  the  strong  simple 
words,  which  articulate  the  idea  so  exactly,  confirm 
the  impression  of  something  rounded  and  complete  ; 
as  though  final  expression  had  been  reached  and 
nothing  remained  behind.  But  as  a  fact  there  is 
much  behind.  One  sees  this  perhaps  a  little  more 
clearly  in  "  The  Mystery  " : 

He  came  and  took  me  by  the  hand 

Up  to  a  red  rose  tree, 
He  kept  His  meaning  to  Himself 

But  gave  a  rose  to  me. 

I  did  not  pray  Him  to  lay  bare 

The  mystery  to  me, 
Enough  the  rose  was  Heaven  to  smell, 

And  His  own  face  to  see. 

Again  the  idea  has  been  crystallized  so  cleanly 
out  of  the  poetic  matrix  that  one  sees  at  first  only 
its  sharp,  bright  outline.  Perhaps  to  the  analyst  it 

112 


Ralph   Hodgson 

would  yield  nothing  more.  But  the  simpler  mind 
will  surely  feel,  no  matter  how  dimly,  the  presence 
of  all  the  imaginings  out  of  which  it  sprang,  a  small 
synthesis  of  the  universe. 

Here  we  touch  the  main  feature  of  this  poet's 
gift — his  power  to  visualize,  to  make  almost  tangible, 
a  poetic  conception.  So  consummate  is  this  power 
that  it  dominates  other  qualities  and  might  almost 
cheat  us  into  thinking  that  they  did  not  exist.  Thus 
we  might  not  suspect  this  transparent  verse  of 
reflective  depths ;  and  of  course,  it  is  not  intellec- 
tual poetry,  specifically  so-called.  Yet  reflection  is 
implied  everywhere  ;  and  occasionally  it  is  a  pure 
abstraction  which  gets  itself  embodied.  The  poem 
called  "  Time  "  illustrates  this.  In  its  opening  line — 
"Time,  you  old  Gipsy-man  " — the  idea  swings  into 
life  in  a  figure  which  gains  energy  with  every  line. 
One  positively  sees  this  restless  old  man  who  has 
driven  his  caravan  from  end  to  end  of  the  world 
and  who  cannot  be  persuaded  to  stay  for  bribe  or 
entreaty.  And  it  would  be  possible  quite  to  forget 
the  underlying  thought  did  not  the  gravity  of  it 
peep  between  the  incisive  strokes  of  the  third  stanza. 

Last  week  in  Babylon, 
Last  night  in  Rome, 
Morning,  and  in  the  crush 
Under  Paul's  dome  ; 

H  113 


Contemporary 


Under  Paul's  dial 

You  tighten  your  rein— 

Only  a  moment, 

And  off  once  again  ; 

Off  to  some  city 

Now  blind  in  the  womb, 

Off  to  another 

Ere  that's  in  the  tomb. 

So  it  is  too  with  this  poet's  imagination.  It 
deals  perpetually  with  concrete  imagery—  as  for 
instance  when  it  pictures  Eve  : 

Picking  a  dish  of  sweet 
Berries  and  plums  to  eat, 

or  presents  her,  when  the  serpent  is  softly  calling 
her  name,  as 

Wondering,  listening, 

Listening,  wondering, 

Eve  with  a  berry 

Half-way  to  her  lips. 

Moreover,  the  poet  does  not  in  the  least  mind 
winging  his  fancy  in  a  homely  phrase.  He  is  not 
afraid  of  an  idiomatic  touch,  nor  of  pithy,  vigorous 
words.  His  conception  is  vivid  enough  to  bear 
rigorous  treatment  ;  and  in  the  same  poem,  "  Eve," 
the  serpent  is  found  plotting  the  fall  of  humanity 
in  these  terms  : 
114 


Ralph  Hodgson 

Now  to  get  even  and 
Humble  proud  heaven  and 
Now  was  the  moment  or 
Never  at  all. 

And  when  his  wiles  have  been  successful,  Eve's 
feathered  comrades,  Titmouse  and  Jenny  Wren, 
make  an  indignant  4  clatter  '  : 

How  the  birds  rated  him, 
How  they  all  hated  him  ! 
How  they  all  pitied 
Poor  motherless  Eve  ! 

That  is  the  nearest  approach  to  fantasy  which 
will  be  found  in  this  poetry.  There  is  nothing 
subtle  or  whimsical  here  :  no  half-lights  or  neutral 
tones  or  hints  of  meaning.  This  genius  cannot 
fulfil  itself  in  an  '  airy  nothing.'  The  imaginative 
power  is  too  firmly  controlled  by  a  sense  of  fact 
to  admit  the  bizarre  and  incredible  ;  yet  there  can 
be  no  doubt  of  its  creative  force  when  one  turns 
for  a  moment  to  either  of  the  prize  poems,  and  par- 
ticularly to  "  The  Bull."  It  would  be  hard  to  name 
a  finer  specimen  of  verse  in  which  imagination,  high 
and  sustained,  is  seen  to  be  operating  through  a 
purely  sensuous  medium.  That  is  to  say,  moving 
in.  a  region  of  fact,  accurately  observing  and  record- 
ing the  phenomena  of  a  real  world,  there  is  yet 
achieved  an  imaginative  creation  of  great  power — 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

a  bit  of  all-but-perfect  art.  Quotation  will  not 
serve  to  illustrate  this,  since  the  poem  is  an  organic 
whole  and  a  principal  element  of  its  perfection  is 
its  unity.  One  .could,  however,  demonstrate  over 
again  from  almost  any  line  the  poet's  instinct  for 
reality  :  as  for  example  in  the  truth,  quiet  but 
unflinching,  of  his  presentment  of  the  cruelty 
inherent  in  his  theme.  The  passages  are  almost 
too  painful  taken  out  of  their  context  ;  and  there 
may  be  some  for  whom  they  will  rob  the  poem  of 
complete  beauty.  But  the  same  instinct  may  be 
observed  visualizing,  in  strong  light  and  rich  colour 
and  incisive  movement,  the  teeming  tropical  world 
in  which  the  old  bull  stands,  sick,  unkinged  and 
left  to  die. 

Cranes  and  gaudy  parrots  go 

Up  and  down  the  burning  sky  ; 

Tree-top  cats  purr  drowsily 

In  the  dim-day  green  below  ; 

And  troops  of  monkeys,  nutting,  some, 

All  disputing,  go  and  come  ; 

And  a  dotted  serpent  curled 
Round  and  round  and  round  a  tree, 
Yellowing  its  greenery, 
Keeps  a  watch  on  all  the  world, 
All  the  world  and  this  old  bull 
In  the  forest  beautiful. 

116 


Ralph    Hodgson 

This  poem  is  indeed  very  illustrative  of  its 
author's  method.  One  perceives  the  thought 
behind  (apart,  of  course,  from  the  mental  process 
of  actual  composition)  ;  and  one  realizes  the  magni- 
tude of  it.  But  again  it  is  implicit  only,  and 
reflection  on  '  the  flesh  that  dies,'  on  greatness 
fallen  and  worth  contemned,  hardly  wins  a  couple 
of  lines  of  direct  expression. 

In  "  The  Song  of  Honour  "  it  would  seem  for  the 
moment  as  if  all  that  were  reversed.  This  poem  is 
the  re-creation  of  a  spiritual  experience,  a  hymn  of 
adoration.  It  is  entirely  subjective  in  conception, 
and  is  completely  different  therefore  from  the  cool 
objectivity  of  "  The  Bull  "  or  "  Eve  "  or  "  Time." 
In  them  the  poet  is  working  so  detachedly  that  there 
is  even  room  for  the  play  of  gentle  humour  now 
and  then.  He  is  working  with  delight,  indeed,  and 
emotion  warm  enough,  but  with  a  joy  that  is  wholly 
artistic,  caring  much  more  for  the  thing  that  he  is 
making  than  for  any  single  element  of  it.  But  in 
"  The  Song  of  Honour  "  it  is  evident  that  he  cares 
immensely  for  his  theme  ;  and  hence  arise  an  ardour 
and  intensity  which  are  not  present  in  the  other 
poems.  Moreover,  the  work  ,is  the  interpretation 
of  a  vision,  which  would  seem  to  imply  a  mystical 
quality  only  latent  hitherto  ;  and  there  is  a  rapture 
of  utterance  which  is  not  found  elsewhere. 

117 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

The  apparent  contrast  has  no  reality  however. 
It  is  possible  to  catch,  though  in  subtle  inflexions 
it  is  true,  an  undertone  which  runs  below  even  the 
simplest  and  clearest  of  these  lyrics.  No  doubt  it 
is  as  quiet,  as  subdued,  as  it  well  could  be — this 
soft,  complex  harmony  flowing  beneath  the  ringing 
measure.  But  one  can  distinguish  a  note  here  and 
a  phrase  there  which  point  directly  to  the  dominant 
theme  of  "  The  Song  of  Honour."  There  is  a  hint 
of  it,  for  example,  in  "The  Mystery,"  where  the 
soul  is  imagined  as  standing,  reverent  but  without 
fear,  within  the  closed  circle  of  the  unknown,  and 
joyfully  content  to  accept  as  the  pledge  and  symbol 
of  that  which  it  is  unable  to  comprehend,  the  beauty 
of  the  material  world.  One  may  see  in  that  a 
familiar  attitude  of  the  modern  mind;  the  per- 
ception that  there  is  a  mystery,  which  somehow 
perpetually  eludes  the  creeds  and  philosophies,  but 
which  seems  to  be  attaining  to  gradual  revelation  and 
fulfilment  in  actual  existence.  A  vision  of  the  unity 
of  that  existence  was  the  inspiration  of  this  greater 
poem  :  a  realization,  momentary  but  dazzling,  of 
the  magnificence  of  being :  of  its  joy,  of  its  con- 
tinuity, of  the  progression  of  life  through  countless 
forms  of  that  which  we  call  matter  to  an  ultimate 
goal  of  supreme  glory. 

I  do  not  say  that  any  thesis,  in  those  or  kindred 
118 


Ralph  Hodgson 

terms,  was  the  origin  of  this  Song.  1  feel  quite 
sure  that  it  had  no  basis  so  abstract.  It  was  born 
in  a  mood  of  exaltation,  kindled  perhaps  by  such 
an  instant  of  flaming  super-consciousness  as  may 
be  observed  in  the  spiritual  experience  of  other 
contemporary  poets.  The  moment  of  its  inception 
is  recorded  in  the  opening  of  the  poem : 

I  climbed  a  hill  as  light  fell  short, 
And  rooks  came  home  in  scramble  sort, 
And  filled  the  trees  and  flapped  and  fought 
And  sang  themselves  to  sleep  ; 

Silence  fell  upon  the  landscape  as  darkness  came 
and  the  stars  shone  out. 

I  heard  no  more  of  bird  or  bell, 
The  mastiff  in  a  slumber  fell, 
I  stared  into  the  sky, 
As  wondering  men  have  always  done 
Since  beauty  and  the  stars  were  one, 
.     Though  none  so  hard  as  I. 

It  seemed,  so  still  the  valleys  were, 
As  if  the  whole  world  knelt  at  prayer, 
Save  me  and  me  alone  ; 

So  true  is  the  poet  to  his  impulse  towards  clarity 
and  the  concrete,  so  unerringly  does  he  select  the 
strong,  familiar  word  with  all  its  meaning  clear 
on  the  face  of  it,  that  it  is  possible  to  regard  the 

119 


Contemporary  'Poets 

Song  simply  as  a  religious  poem — a  hymn  of  adora- 
tion to  a  Supreme  Being  : 

I  heard  the  universal  choir, 

The  Sons  of  Light  exalt  their  Sire 

With  universal  song, 

Earth's  lowliest  and  loudest  notes, 

Her  million  times  ten  million  throats 

Exalt  Him  loud  and  long, 

Pure  religion  the  poem  is,  but  its  implications  are 
broader  than  any  creed.  And,  define  it  as  we  may, 
it  remains  suggestive  of  the  most  vital  current  of 
modern  thought.  For  it  takes  its  stand  upon  the 
solid  earth,  embraces  reality  and  perceives  in  the 
material  world  itself  that  which  is  urging  joyfully 
toward  some  manifestation  of  spiritual  splendour. 
Thus  the  poet  hears  the  Song  rising  from  the  very 
stocks  and  stones  : 

The  everlasting  pipe  and  flute 
Of  wind  and  sea  and  bird  and  brute, 
And  lips  deaf  men  imagine  mute 
In  wood  and  stone  and  clay, 

The  paean  is  audible  to  him,  too,  from  lowly 
creatures  in  whom  life  has  not  yet  grown  conscious, 
from  the  tiniest  forms  of  being,  from  the  most 
transient  of  physical  phenomena. 

The  music  of  a  lion  strong 
That  shakes  a  hill  a  whole  night  long, 
1 2O 


Ralph  Hodgson 

A  hill  as  loud  as  he, 
The  twitter  of  a  mouse  among 
Melodious  greenery, 
The  ruby's  and  the  rainbow's  song, 
The  nightingale's — all  three, 
The  song  of  life  that  wells  and  flows 
From  every  leopard,  lark  and  rose 
And  everything  that  gleams  or  goes 
Lack-lustre  in  the  sea. 

But  it  is  in  humanity  that  the  Song  attains  its  fullest 
and  noblest  harmony.  Out  of  the  stuff  of  actual 
human  life  the  spiritual  essence  is  distilled,  making 
the  wraiths  of  a  mystical  imagination  poor  and  pale 
by  comparison. 

I  heard  the  hymn  of  being  sound 

From  every  well  of  honour  found 

In  human  sense  and  soul : 

The  song  of  poets  when  they  write 

The  testament  of  Beautysprite 

Upon  a  flying  scroll, 

The  song  of  painters  when  they  take 

A  burning  brush  for  Beauty's  sake 

And  limn  her  features  whole — 

The  song  of  beggars  when  they  throw 

The  crust  of  pity  all  men  owe 

To  hungry  sparrows  in  the  snow, 

Old  beggars  hungry  too — 

The  song  of  kings  of  kingdoms  when 

They  rise  above  their  fortune  men, 

And  crown  themselves  anew, — 

121 


Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

THERE  is  a  collected  edition  of  Mr  Hueffer's 
poetry  published  in  that  year  of  dreadful 
memory  nineteen  hundred  and  fourteen. 
It  is  a  valuable  possession.  Its  verse-content  may 
not — of  course  it  cannot — appeal  in  the  same  degree 
to  all  lovers  of  poetry.  For  reasons  that  we  shall 
see,  it  is  more  liable  than  most  poetic  art  to  certain 
objections  from  those  whose  taste  is  already  formed 
and  who  therefore,  wittingly  or  unwittingly,  have 
adopted  a  pet  convention.  They  may  boggle  at  a 
word  or  a  phrase  in  terminology  which  is  avowedly 
idiomatic.  They  may  wince  occasionally  at  a  free 
rhyme  or  grow  a  little  restive  at  the  irregularities 
of  a  rhyme-scheme,  or  resent  an  abrupt  change  of 
rhythm  in  the  middle  of  a  stanza  just  as  they  believed 
they  had  begun  to  scan  it  correctly.  If  they  are 
the  least  bit  sentimental  (and  it  is  not  many  who 
have  cast  out,  root  and  branch,  the  Anglo-Saxon 
vice)  they  will  be  chilled  here  and  there  by  an 
ironic  touch,  repelled  by  an  apparent  levity,  or 
irritated  at  the  contiguity  of  subjects  and  ideas 
which  seem  inept  and  unrelated.  The  classicist 
will  grumble  that  the  unities  are  broken  ;  the 
idealist  will  shudder  at  a  bit  of  actuality ;  the 
formalist  will  eye  certain  new  patterns  with  dis- 

122 


Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

favour  ;  and  even  the  realist,  with,  so  much  after 
his  own  heart,  will  be  graceless  enough  to  be  im- 
patient at  recurrent  signs  of  a  romantic  tempera- 
ment. 

So,  in  half  a  dozen  different  ways,  the  literary 
person  of  as  many  different  types  may  find  that 
he  is  just  hindered  from  complete  enjoyment  of 
what  he  nevertheless  perceives  to  be  good  work. 
If  he  be  honest,  however,  and  master  of  his  moods, 
he  will  be  willing  to  admit  that  it  is  good  ;  and 
that  none  of  these  objections  invalidate  the  essen- 
tial poetry  of  the  book.  That  has  its  own  winning 
and  haunting  qualities,  quite  strong  enough  to 
justify  the  claim  that  the  volume  is  a  valuable 
possession.  That  is  to  say,  there  is  refreshing 
beauty  in  it,  considered  simply  as  a  work  of  art 
and  judged  only  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
conventional  lover  of  poetry.  There  are  other 
values,  however,  immediate  or  potential.  There 
is,  for  example,  to  the  believer  in  Mr  Hueffer's 
theory,  promise  of  the  power  which  his  methpd 
would  have  upon  all  the  kind,  jolly,  intelligent, 
but  unliterary  people,  could  they  be  induced  to 
read  poetry  at  all.  As  a  mere  corollary  from  the 
literary  quibbles  already  named,  one  would  expect 
such  people  to  find  this  volume  delightful — an  ex- 
pectation by  no  means  daunted  by  the  declared  fate 

123 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

of  earlier  productions.  One  sees  that  the  evident 
sincerity  of  the  work,  the  attitude  of  that  particular 
personality  to  life,  the  free  hand  and  the  right 
instinct  in  the  selection  of  incident,  and  the  use  of 
language  that  is  homely  and  picturesque,  ought  to 
be  potent  attractions  to  the  reader  who  finds  con- 
ventional poetic  poetry  stilted  and  artificial. 

Moreover,  so  successful  has  the  author's  method 
been  in  many  cases  that  even  the  litterateur  must 
pause  and  think.  He  will  observe  how  well  the 
new  artistry  suits  the  new  material ;  he  will  note 
the  exhilaration  of  the  final  effect ;  and  when, 
returning  to  his  beloved  poets  of  the  last  genera- 
tion, he  finds  that  some  of  their  virtue  seems  to 
have  fled  meantime,  he  will  ask  himself  whether  the 
life  of  our  time  may  not  demand,  poetic  presentation 
in  such  forms  as  the  younger  poets  are  making. 
Which  is  to  say  that  he  will  be  a  convert  to  Mr 
Hueffer's  impressionism. 

That  point  is  debatable,  of  course  ;  but  what 
will  hardly  be  questioned,  apart  from  the  joy  we 
frequently  experience  here  in  seeing  a  thing  con- 
summately done,  is  the  importance  of  this  work  as 
an  experiment.  That  is  obviously  another  kind 
of  value,  with  a  touch  of  scientific  interest  added 
to  the  aesthetics.  And  the  importance  of  the  ex- 
periment is  enhanced,  or  at  any  rate  we  realize 
124 


Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

it  more  fully,  from  the  fact  that  the  poet  has  been 
generous  enough  to  elaborate  his  theory  in  a  preface. 
That  is  no  euphemism,  as  other  prefaces  and  theories 
of  exasperating  memory  might  seem  to  suggest. 
It  is  real  generosity  to  give  away  the  fundamentals 
of  your  art,  to  show  as  clearly  as  is  done  here  the 
principles  upon  which  you  work  and  the  exact 
means  which  are  taken  to  give  effect  to  them.  It 
is  courageous  too,  particularly  when  confessions 
are  made  which  supply  a  key  to  personality.  For 
the  hostile  critic  is  thus  doubly  armed.  But  the 
'  gentle  reader  '  is  armed  too  ;  and  Mr  Hueffer 
would  seem  to  have  been  wise,  even  from  the  point 
of  view  of  mere  prudence,  to  take  the  risk. 

The  reader  of  this  book  then  will  find  the  poems 
doubly  interesting  in  the  light  that  the  preface 
throws  upon  them.  He  may,  of  course,  read  and 
enjoy  them  without  reference  to  it — that  is  the 
measure  of  their  poetic  value.  Or,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  may  read  the  preface,  brim  full  of  stimu- 
lating ideas,  without  reference  to  the  poetry. 
But  the  complete  significance  of  either  can  only  be 
appreciated  when  they  are  taken  in  conjunction. 
For  instance,  we  light  upon  this  phrase  indicating 
the  material  of  the  poet's  art :  "  Modern  life,  so 
extraordinary,  so  hazy,  so  tenuous,  with  still  such 
definite  and  concrete  spots  in  it."  It  is  a  charming 

125 


Contemporary  *Poets 

phrase,  and  from  its  own  suggestiveness  gently 
constrains  one  to  think.  But  if  we  turn  at  once  to 
the  most  considerable  poem  of  the  collection,  "To 
All  the  Dead,"  we  shall  see  our  poet  in  the  very 
act  of  recording  the  life  that  he  visualizes  in  this 
way ;  and  we  shall  see  how  remarkably  the  texture 
of  the  poem  fits  the  description  in  the  passage  just 
quoted:  "life  hazy  and  tenuous,  with  such  definite 
and  concrete  spots." 

To  tell  the  truth,  haze  is  the  first  thing  we  see 
when  observing  the  effect  of  this  poem.  It  is 
pervasive  too,  and  for  a  time  nothing  more  is 
visible  save  two  or  three  islets  of  concrete  experience, 
projecting  above  it  and  appearing  to  float  about  in 
it,  unstable  and  unrelated.  This  first  effect  is 
rather  like  that  of  a  landscape  in  a  light  autumn 
ground-mist,  which  floats  along  the  valley-meadows 
leaving  tree-tops  and  hillsides  clear.  Or  it  is  like 
trying  to  recollect  what  happened  to  you  on  a 
certain  memorable  day.  The  mood  comes  back 
readily  enough,  golden  or  sombre  ;  but  the  events 
which  induced  it,  or  held  it  in  check,  or  gave  it  so 
sudden  a  reverse  only  return  reluctantly,  one  by 
one,  and  not  even  in  their  proper  order ;  so  that 
we  have  to  puzzle  them  out  and  rearrange  and  fit 
them  together  before  the  right  sequence  appears. 

Such  is  the  main  impression  of  "  To  All  the  Dead." 
126 


Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

But  the  artist  has  been  at  work  here  selecting 
his  incidents  with  a  keen  eye  and  sensitive  touch, 
brooding  over  them  with  a  temperament  of  com- 
plex charm,  and  for  all  their  apparent  disjunction, 
relating  and  unifying  them,  as  in  life,  with  the 
subtlest  and  frailest  of  links.  As  a  consequence, 
at  a  second  glance  the  haze  begins  to  lift,  while  at 
a  third  the  whole  landscape  is  visible,  a  prospect 
very  rich  and  fair  despite  the  ugly  spots  which  the 
artist  has  not  deigned  to  eliminate,  and  which,  as  a 
fact,  he  has  deliberately  retained. 

But  there  is  no  doubt  the  first  glance  is  puzzling. 
If  one  were  not  caught  by  the  interest  of  those 
concrete  spots  it  might  even  be  tiresome,  and  one 
would  probably  not  trouble  to  take  the  second 
glance.  But  they  are  so  curious  in  themselves, 
and  sketched  so  boldly,  that  we  are  arrested  ;  and 
the  next  moment  the  general  design  emerges. 
First  the  picture  of  the  ancient  Chinese  queen — 
a  Mongolian  Helen — 

With  slanting  eyes  you  would  say  were  blind — 
In  a  dead  white  face. 

That,  with  its  quaint  strange  setting  and  its  sug- 
gestion of  a  guilty  love  story,  is  a  thing  to  linger 
over  for  its  own  sake,  apart  from  its  apparent  isola- 
tion. Nor  do  we  realize  fully  until  later  (although 

127 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

something  subtler  than  intelligence  has  already 
perceived  it),  that  in  this  opening  passage  the 
theme  has  been  stated,  and  that  the  key-note  was 
struck  in  the  line 

She  should  have  been  dead  nine  thousand  year.  .  .  . 

But  we  pass  abruptly,  in  the  second  movement, 
to  our  own  time  and  to  the  heart  of  our  own 
civilization.  We  are  paying  a  call  on  a  garrulous 
friend  in  the  rue  de  la  Paix.  He  is  an  American 
and  therefore  a  philosopher  ;  but  as  he  descants 
on  the  '  nature  of  things,'  doubtless  in  the  beauti- 
ful English  of  the  gentle  American,  we  let  our  atten- 
tion wander  to  things  that  touch  us  more  sharply, 
to  sights  and  sounds  outside  the  window,  each 
vividly  perceived  and  clearly  picked  out,  but  all 
resolving  themselves  into  a  symbol,  vaguely  im- 
pressive, of  the  complicated  whirl  of  life.  And 
this  passage  again,  with  its  satiric  flavour  and 
dexterity  of  execution,  we  are  content  to  enjoy  in 
its  apparent  detachment,  until  we  glimpse  the  link 
which  unites  it  to  the  larger  interest  of  the  whole. 

The  link  with  that  ancient  queen  is  in  a  flash 
of  contrast — a  couple  of  Chinese  chiropodists, 
grinning  from  their  lofty  window  at  a  mannequin 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  And  as 
the  theme  is  developed,  episodes  which  seem 
128 


Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

irrelevant  at  first,  are  soon  found  to  have  their  rela- 
tion with  the  thought — of  death  and  tragic  passion — 
on  which  the  poet  is  brooding.  At  a  chance  word 
dropped  by  the  American  host  the  confused  and  per- 
plexing sights  and  sounds  of  the  outer  world  vanish  ; 
and  the  philosophical  lecture,  droning  hitherto  just  on 
the  edge  of  consciousness,  fades  even  out  of  hearing — • 

...  I  lost  them 

At  the  word  "  Sandusky."    A  landscape  crossed  them  ; 
A  scene  no  more  nor  less  than  a  vision, 
All  clear  and  grey  in  the  rue  de  la  Paix. 

He  is  seven  years  back  in  time  and  many  hundreds 
of  miles  away,  pushing  up  a  North  American  river 
in  a  screaming,  smoky  steamer,  between  high  banks 
crowned  with  forests  of  fir  : 

And  suddenly  we  saw  a  beach — 

A  grey  old  beach  and  some  old  grey  mounds 
That  seemed  to  silence  the  steamer's  sounds  ; 
So  still  and  old  and  grey  and  ragged. 
For  there  they  lay,  the  tumuli,  barrows, 
The  Indian  graves.  .  .  . 

So,  rather  obliquely  perhaps  as  to  method,  but  with 
certainty  of  effect,  we  are  prepared  for  the  cul- 
mination in  the  third  movement.  The  poet  has 
fled  from  civilization  and  '  Modern  Movements ' 
to  the  upland  heather  of  a  high  old  mound  above  the 
town  of  Treves.  And  here,  on  a  late  autumn 

i  129 


Contemporary   "Poets 

evening,  he  lingers  to  think.  He  remembers  that 
it  is  the  eve  of  All  Souls'  Day  ;  and  remembers 
too  that  the  mound  on  which  he  is  seated  is  an  old 
burying-place  of  great  antiquity.  In  the  cold  and 
dark  of  his  eerie  perch,  certain  impressions  of  the 
last  few  days  return  to  him,  just  those  which  have 
been  subtly  galling  a  secret  wound  and  impelling 
him  to  flee — the  tragedy  of  the  Chinese  queen,  the 
vision  of  the  old  tumuli  at  Sandusky  Bay,  the  un- 
heeded platitudes  of  his  friend— 

..."  From  good  to  good, 

And  good  to  better  you  say  we  go" 

(There's  an  owl  overhead.)     "  Tou  say  that's  so  ?  " 

My  American  friend  of  the  rue  de  la  Paix  ? 

"  Grow  better  and,  better  from  day  to  day" 

Well,  well  I  had  a  friend  that's  not  a  friend  to-day  ; 

Well,  well,  I  had  a  love  who's  resting  in  the  clay 

Of  a  suburban  cemetery. 

One  has  felt  all  through  that  something  weird  is 
impending  ;  but  I  am  sure  that  no  ghost-scene 
so  curiously  impressive  as  that  which  follows  has 
ever  been  written  before.  It  could  not  have  been 
done,  waiting  as  it  was  for  the  conjuncture  of  time 
and  temperament  and  circumstance.  But  here  it 
is,  a  thing  essentially  of  our  day  ;  with  its  ironic 
mood,  its  new  lore,  its  air  of  detachment,  its  glint 
of  grim  humour  now  and  then,  and  its  intense 
passion,  both  of  love  and  of  despair,  which  the 
130 


Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

fugitive  show  of  nonchalance  does  but  serve  to 
accentuate.  Passion  is  the  dominant  note  as  the 
myriad  wraiths  of  long-dead  lovers  crowd  past  the 
brooding  figure  in  the  darkness. 

And  so  beside  the  woodland  in  the  sheen 

And  shimmer  of  the  dewlight,  crescent  moon 

And  dew  wet  leaves  I  heard  the  cry  "  Your  lips  ! 

Your  lips  !     Your  lips."     It  shook  me  where  I  sat, 

It  shook  me  like  a  trembling,  fearful  reed, 

The  call  of  the  dead.     A  multitudinous 

And  shadowy  host  glimmered  and  gleamed,. 

Face  to  face,  eye  to  eye,  heads  thrown  back,  and  lips 

Drinking,  drinking  from  lips,  drinking  from  bosoms 

The  coldness  of  the  dew — and  all  a  gleam 

Translucent,  moonstruck  as  of  moving  glasses, 

Gleams  on  dead  hair,  gleams  on  the  white  dead  shouldeis 

Upon  the  backgrounds  of  black  purple  woods.  .  .   . 

That  poem  naturally  comes  first  in  a  little  study, 
because  it  is  the  most  considerable  in  the  collection, 
and  again  because  it  is  the  most  characteristic.  It 
is  very  convenient,  too,  for  illustrating  those  theories 
of  the  preface,  as  for  example,  that  the  business  of 
the  poet  is  "  the  right  appreciation  of  such  facets  of 
our  own  day  as  God  will  let  us  perceive  .  .  .  the 
putting  oi  certain  realities  in  certain  aspects  .  .  .  the 
juxtaposition  of  varied  and  contrasting  things  .  .  . 
the  genuine  love  and  the  faithful  rendering  of  the 
received  impression."  But  on  aesthetic  grounds 


Contemporary  'Poets 

one  is  not  so  sure  of  "  To  All  the  Dead  "  for  the  first 
place.  Perhaps  it  tries  to  include  too  many  facets 
of  life — or  death  ;  perhaps  we  get  a  slight  impression 
as  regards  technique  that  the  poet  is  consciously 
experimenting  ;  and  there  is  a  shade  of  morbidity 
haunting  it.  In  many  of  the  shorter  pieces  there 
is  a  nearer  approach  to  perfection.  "  The  Portrait," 
for  instance,  a  symbolical  picture  of  life,  has  only 
one  flaw  ;  a  slight  excess  of  a  trick  of  repetition 
which  is  a  weakness  of  our  author.  It  is  mere 
carping,  however,  to  find  fault  with  a  piece  which 
is  so  noble  in  idea  and  gracious  in  expression  ; 
and  it  seems  a  crime  to  spoil  the  lovely  thing  by 
mutilating  it.  But  with  a  resemblance  of  theme, 
the  poem  is  so  strongly  contrasted  in  manner  with 
"  To  All  the  Dead  "  that  one  cannot  resist  quoting 
from  it  at  this  point.  The  theme  here  is  rela- 
tively simple  :  Life,  symbolized  in  the  figure  of  a 
woman,  seated  upon  a  tomb  in  a  sequestered  grave- 
yard. The  mood  is  one  of  serene  melancholy,  not 
rising  to  passion  or  dropping  to  satire  ;  and  the 
gentle  unity  of  thought  and  feeling  leaves  the  mind 
free  to  receive  the  impression  of  beauty. 

She  sits  upon  a  tombstone  in  the  shade  ; 


132 


Being  life  amid  piled  up  remembrances 
Of  the  tranquil  dead. 


Ford  Madox   Hueffer 

...  So  she  sits  and  waits. 
And  she  rejoices  us  who  pass  her  by, 
And  she  rejoices  those  who  here  lie  still, 
And  she  makes  glad  the  little  wandering  airs, 
And  doth  make  glad  the  shaken  beams  of  light 
That  fall  upon  her  forehead  :  all  the  world 
Moves  round  her,  sitting  on  forgotten  tombs 
And  lighting  in  to-morrow. 

That  was  written  earlier  than  "  To  All  the  Dead," 
but,  like  the  two  songs  which  come  immediately 
after  it  in  this  volume,  and  like  the  "  Suabian 
Legend,"  it  is  amongst  Mr  Hueffer's  best  things. 
One  notes  the  pervasive  temperament  in  all  this 
work.  Indeed,  its  artistic  significance  seems  to  lie 
in  having  expressed  strikingly  a  vivid  personality. 
It  is  a  very  individual  temper,  rooted  in  acute 
sensibility  ;  but  reflective  power  is  visibly  present, 
with  a  vein  of  irony  running  through  it,  touched 
now  and  then  to  bitterness.  In  one  aspect  after 
another  this  individuality  is  revealed,  and  the 
changing  moods,  gentle ,  or  tender  or  wrathful, 
are  matched  by  changing  forms.  It  follows  that 
there  are  many  varied  measures  here ;  and 
most  of  them  have  some  new  feature.  A  few 
are  very  irregular,  and  all  are,  of  course,  modelled 
to  suit  the  author's  impressionistic  theory.  And 
the  fact  that  these  forms  are  in  the  main  so  well 
adapted  to  their  themes  :  that  they  do  succeed 

133 


Contemporary    T^oets 

in  conveying  a  vivid  impression,  is  as  much  as 
to  say  that  the  poet  has  evolved  a  technique  which 
exactly  fits  his  own  genius.  It  may  or  it  may 
not  carry  much  further  than  that ;  and  the  ex- 
tent to  which  the  new  instrument  would  respond 
to  other  hands  may  be  problematical.  One 
would  suppose  that  some  of  its  qualities  at  least 
would  be  a  permanent  gain,  particularly  the 
larger  range  which  brings  within  its  compass  so 
many  fresh  aspects  of  life  on  the  one  hand  and 
on  the  other  a  richer  idiom.  But  whether  or 
no  these  are  qualities  which  will  pass  into  the 
substance  of  future  poetry,  there  can  be  no  .ques- 
tion that  the  method  has  achieved  here  an  intense 
presentment  of  life. 

Thus  we  have  the  fulmination  of  "  Sussmund's 
Address  to  an  Unknown  God " ;  violent,  bitter, 
and  unreasoned,  the  mere  rage  of  weary  mind  and 
body  against  the  goads  of  modern  existence.  Thus, 
in  the  "  Canzone  a  la  Sonata  "  as  in  "  The  Portrait  " 
a  single  serious  thought  is  rendered  in  grave  un- 
rhymed  stanzas  which  have  all  the  dignity  of  blank 
verse  with  something  more  than  its  usual  vivacity ; 
and  thus,  too,  in  "  From  Inland,"  one  of  the  ex- 
quisite pieces  of  the  volume,  the  whole  of  a  tragedy 
is  suggested  by  the  rapid  sketching  of  two  or  three 
brief  scenes.  Again  the  verse  is  perfectly  fitted  to 

'34 


Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

the  theme ;  the  sober  rhythm  matching  the  quiet- 
ness of  retrospect ;  memory  tenderly  grieving  in 
simple  rhymes  which  vary  their  occurrence  as 
emotion  rises  and  falls. 

...  We  two,"  I  said, 
"  Have  still  the  best  to  come."     But  you 
Bowed  down  your  brooding,  silent  head, 
Patient  and  sad  and  still.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Dear  ! 

What  would  I  give  to  climb  our  down, 
Where  the  wind  hisses  in  each  stalk 
And,  from  the  high  brown  crest  to  see, 
Beyond  the  ancient,  sea-grey  town, 
The  sky-line  of  our  foam-flecked  sea  ; 
And,  looking  out  to  sea,  to  hear, 
Ah  !     Dear,  once  more  your  pleasant  talk  ; 
And  to  go  home  as  twilight  falls 
Along  the  old  sea-walls  ! 
The  best  to  come  !     The  best  !     The  best  ! 
One  says  the  wildest  things  at  times, 
Merely  for  comfort.     But — The  best ! 

Again,  in  "  Grey  Matter  "  and  "  Thanks  Whilst 
Unharnessing,"  the  colloquial  touch  is  right  and 
sure.  In  the  latter  poem,  the  almost  halting  time 
of  the  opening  lines  clearly  suggests  the  tired  horse 
as  he  draws  to  a  standstill  in  the  early  darkness  of 
a  winter  evening  :  there  is  a  quicker  movement  as 
the  robin's  note  rings  out  ;  the  farmer's  song  is 


Contemporary   Poets 

broken  at  intervals  as  he  moves  about  the  business 
of  unharnessing,  and  when  he  stands  at  the  open 
stable  door,  peering  through  the  darkness  at  the 
robin  on  the  thorn,  the  impression  of  relief  from 
toil,  of  gratitude  for  home  and  rest,  of  simple 
kindliness  and  humanity,  is  complete — 

Small  brother,  flit  in  here,  since  all  around 
The  frost  hath  gripped  the  ground  ; 
And  oh  !   I  would  not  like  to  have  you  die. 
We's  help  each  other, 
Little  Brother  Beady-eye. 

One  might  continue  to  cite  examples  :  the  rapid 
unrhymed  dialogue  of  "  Grey  Matter,"  which  con- 
tinues so  long  as  there  is  a  touch  of  controversy  in 
the  talk  of  husband  and  wife,  and  changes  to  a  lyric 
measure  as  emotion  rises  ;  the  real  childlikeness  of 
the  "  Children's  Song  "  ;  or  the  mingled  pain  and 
sweetness  of  "  To  Christina  at  Nightfall,"  epito- 
mising life  in  its  philosophy  and  reflecting  it  in  its 
art.  But  it  is  unnecessary  to  go  further  ;  and  this 
last  little  poem  (I  will  not  do  it  violence  by  extracting 
any  part  of  it)  is  perhaps  the  most  complete  vindica- 
tion of  our  poet's  theories  :  its  vivid  impressions 
conveyed  with  a  touch  at  once  firm  and  tender  ; 
intense  thought  and  feeling  rendered  with  gracious 
homeliness. 


136 


An  Irish  Group 

THE  spirit  of  poetry  is  native  to  Ireland.  It 
awakened  there  in  the  early  dawn,  and 
has  hardly  slumbered  in  two  thousand 
years.  Probably  before  the  Christian  era  it  had 
become  vocal ;  and  as  long  as  twelve  hundred  years 
ago  it  had  woven  for  the  garment  of  its  thought  an 
intricate  and  subtle  prosody.  You  would  think  it 
had  grown  old  in  so  great  a  time.  You  would 
almost  expect  to  find,  in  these  latter  days,  a  pale 
and  mournful  wraith  of  poetry  in  the  green  isle. 
You  would  look  for  the  symbol  of  it  in  the  figure 
of  some  poor  old  woman,  like  the  legendary  Kathleen 
ni  Houlihan,  who  is  supposed  to  incarnate  the 
spirit  of  the  country.  But  even  while  you  are 
looking  it  will  happen  with  you  as  it  happened 
before  the  eyes  of  the  lad  in  the  play  by  Mr  Yeats. 
The  bent  form  will  straighten  and  the  old  limbs 
become  lithe  and  free,  the  eyes  will  sparkle  and 
the  cheeks  flush  and  the  head  be  proudly  lifted. 
And  when  you  are  asked,  "  Did  you  see  an  old 
woman  ?  "  you  will  answer  with  the  boy  in  the 
play: 

I  did  not  ;    but  I  saw  a  young  girl,  and  she  had 
the  walk  of  a  queen. 

So  it  is  with  the  later  poetry  of  Ireland.     One 

137 


Contemporary  'Poets 

would  not  guess,  in  the  more  recent  lyrics,  that 
these  singers  are  the  heirs  of  a  great  antiquity. 
Their  songs  are  as  fresh  as  a  blade  of  grass  :  they 
are  as  new  as  a  spring  morning,  as  young  and  sweet 
as  field  flowers  in  May.  They  partake  of  youth  in 
their  essence  ;  and  they  would  seem  to  proceed 
from  that  strain  in  the  Irish  nature  which  has 
always  adored  the  young  and  beautiful,  and  which 
dreamed,  many  centuries  ago,  a  pagan  paradise  of 
immortal  youth  which  has  never  lost  its  glamour  : 

Where  nobody  gets  old  and  godly  and  grave, 
Where  nobody  gets  old  and  crafty  and  wise, 
Where  nobody  gets  old  and  bitter  of  tongue. 

Doubtless  we  owe  this  air  of  newness  largely  to 
the  rebirth  of  literature  in  the  Isle.  When  we  say 
that  poetry  has  never  slumbered  there,  we  get  as 
near  to  the  truth  as  is  possible  ;  it  seems  always  to 
have  been  quick,  eager  and  spontaneous,  and  never 
to  have  drowsed  or  faded.  But  there  was  a  black 
age  when  it  was  smitten  so  hard  by  external  mis- 
fortune that  it  nearly  died.  It  was  early  in  the  nine- 
teenth century  when,  as  Dr  Hyde  tells,  "  The  old 
literary  life  of  Ireland  may  be  said  to  come  to  a  close 
amidst  the  horrors  of  famine,  fever  and  emigration." 
All  that  W.  B.  Yeats,  Dr  Hyde,  and  Lady  Gregory 
have  done  to  build  the  new  literary  life  of  their 

138 


An  Irish   Group 

land  cannot  be  fully  realized  yet.  But  out  of  their 
labours  has  surely  sprung  the  movement  which  we 
call  the  Irish  Literary  Renaissance — a  movement  in 
which,  disregarding  cross  currents,  the  detached 
observer  would  include  the  whole  revival,  whether 
popular  or  aesthetic.  By  fostering  the  Gaelic  they 
have  awakened  in  the  people  themselves  a  sense  of 
the  dignity  of  their  own  language  and  literature. 
By  the  translation  of  saga  and  romance,  the  patient 
gathering  of  folk-tale  and  fairy-lore,  the  search  for 
and  interpretation  of  old  manuscripts,  they  have 
given  to  native  poets  a  mass  of  material  which  is 
peculiarly  suited  to  their  genius.  And  since  approxi- 
mately the  year  1890  they  have  seen  their  reward 
in  the  work  of  a  band  of  brilliant  writers.  Romance 
is  re-born  in  the  novel ;  the  poetry  of  the  old 
saga  blooms  again  in  the  lyric  ;  and  a  vital  new 
development  has  given  to  Ireland  what  she  never 
before  possessed — a  native  drama. 

Now  it  is  true  that  the  larger  figures  of  the 
movement  have  receded  a  little  ;  the  one  in  whom 
the  flame  of  genius  burned  most  fiercely  has  passed 
into  silence.  And  Synge  being  gone,  there  is  no 
hand  like  his,  cunning  to  modulate  upon  every 
string  of  the  harp.  There  is  no  voice  of  so  full  a 
compass,  booming  out  of  tragic  depths  or  shrilling 
satiric  laughter  or  sweet  with  heroic  romance ; 

139 


Contemporary   ^Poets 

breathing  essential  poetry  and  yet  rich  with  the 
comedy  of  life.  It  is  a  fact  to  make  us  grieve  the 
more  for  that  untimely  end,  but  it  is  not  a  cause 
for  despair.  For  there  are  many  legatees  of  the 
genius  of  Synge.  They  are  slighter  figures — natur- 
ally so,  at  this  stage  of  their  career — but  they 
belong,  as  he  did,  to  the  new  birth  of  the  nation's 
genius  and  they  draw  their  inspiration  directly 
from  their  own  land. 

Here  we  touch  a  constant  feature  of  Irish  poetry. 
Dr.  Hyde  tells  that  from  the  earliest  times  the 
bards  were  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  nationality  : 
that  their  themes  were  always  of  native  gods  and 
heroes,  and  that  they  were,  in  a  sense,  the  guardians 
of  national  existence.  The  singers  of  a  later  day 
curiously  resemble  them  in  this.  Sometimes  it  is  a 
matter  of  outward  likeness  only,  the  new  poets 
having  drawn  directly  upon  the  stories  which  have 
been  placed  in  their  hands  from  the  old  saga.  But 
much  more  often  it  is  a  rooted  affinity — a  thing  of 
blood  and  nerve  and  mental  fibre.  Then,  although 
the  gods  may  bear  another  name  and  the  heroes 
be  of  a  newer  breed  and  the  national  ideal  may  be 
enlarged,  it  is  still  with  these  things  that  the  poets 
are  preoccupied. 

This  has  become  to  the  scoffer  a  matter  of  jest, 
and  to  the  grumbler  a  cause  of  complaint — that  the 
140 


An  Irish   Group 

Irish  poet  is  obsessed  by  race.  They  say  that  they 
can  guess  beforehand  what  will  be  the  mood,  the 
manner  and  the  subject  of  nine  Irish  poems  out  of 
ten.  They  are  very  clever  people,  so  they  probably 
could  get  somewhere  near  the  mark.  And  they 
would  naturally  find  themselves  cramped  in  these 
narrow  bounds.  Religion  ancr history  and  national 
ideals  would  give  them  no  scope.  But  when  they 
maintain  that  this  is  a  radical  defect,  I  am  not 
at  all  convinced.  I  remember  that  many  of  the 
world's  great  books  proceeded  from  an  intense 
national  self-consciousness  ;  and  I  ask  myself 
whether  it  may  not  be  a  law  in  the  literary  evolu- 
tion of  a  people,  as  well  as  in  their  political  develop- 
ment, that  they  proceed  by  way  of  a  strong,  free 
and  proud  spirit  of  nationality  to  something  wider. 
The  reply  may  be  that  that  is  a  relatively  early 
stage  through  which,  in  a  normal  literary  progress, 
Ireland  should  have  passed  long  since.  True,  but 
normal  growth  and  advance  have  never  been 
possible  to  her  ;  and  recalling  the  events  of  her 
history,  it  is  something  of  a  marvel  that  the  literary 
genius  should  have  survived  at  all. 

In  contrast  with  modern  English  poetry,  im- 
patient as  it  is  to  escape  from  tradition,  these  traits 
which  mark  a  line  of  descent  so  clearly  are  the  more 
striking.  One  may  even  smile  a  little  at  them — 

141 


Contemporary  Poets 

whimsically,  as  we  do  when  we  see  a  youth  or  a 
young  girl  reproducing  the  very  looks  and  tones 
and  gestures  of  an  older  generation.  There  is 
something  comical  in  the  unconscious  exactitude  of 
it.  But  the  laugh  comes  out  of  the  deeper  sources 
of  comedy.  There  lies  below  it,  subconsciously 
perhaps,  a  profouncr  sense  of  those  things  in  life 
which  are  most  precious  and  most  enduring. 

One  of  the  gayer  features  of  this  family  likeness 
is  the  persistence  of  a  certain  kind  of  satire.  We 
know  from  Dr  Hyde's  Literary  History  of  Ireland 
that  an  important  function  of  the  ancient  bards 
was  to  satirize  the  rivals  and  enemies  of  their 
chieftain.  They  had,  of  course,  to  sing  his  victories, 
to  inspire  and  encourage  his  warriors  and  to  weave 
into  verse  the  hundreds  of  romances  which  had  come 
down  to  them  from  times  older  still.  But  their 
equipment  was  not  complete  unless  it  included  a 
good  stinging  power  of  ridicule  ;  and  the  ollamb, 
or  chief  bard,  was  commonly  required  to  castigate 
in  this  way  the  king  of  some  other  province  who 
happened  to  have  given  offence.  But  it  is  not  to 
be  supposed  that  the  rival  ollamh  would  remain 
silent  under  the  punishment  inflicted  on  his  lord  ; 
and  one  can  imagine  the  battle  of  wits  which  would 
follow.  Or,  if  we  need  any  assurance  as  to  the  caustic 
power  of  the  bard,  it  may  be  found  in  one  quaint 
142 


An  Irish   Group 

incident.  The  hero  Cuchulain  was  ranged  against 
Queen  Maeve  of  Connacht  in  her  famous  raid  into 
Ulster  about  the  year  100  B.C.  Maeve  was  astute 
as  well  as  warlike,  and  when  she  had  failed  several 
times  to  induce  Cuchulain  to  engage  singly  with  one 
of  her  warriors,  she  sent  to  him  a  threat  that  her 
bards  "  would  criticize,  satirize  and  blemish  him 
so  that  they  would  raise  three  blisters  on  his  face  " 
.  .  .  and  Cuchulain  instantly  consented  to  her 
wish. 

I  cannot  guess  how  many  blisters  have  been  raised 
by  Irish  satirists  since  that  date,  but  I  know  the  art 
has  not  died  out.  There  are  modern  practitioners  of 
it.  Synge  made  the  national  susceptibility  smart  ; 
and  yet  his  satire,  to  the  mere  onlooker,  would 
seem  sympathetic  enough.  So,  too,  with  Miss 
Susan  Mitchell.  She  pokes  fun  at  her  compatriots 
with  perfect  good  humour  and  we  cannot  believe 
that  they  would  be  annoyed  by  it.  But  you  never 
can  tell.  Perhaps  the  witty  philosophy  of  "  The 
Second  Battle  of  the  Boyne  "  would  not  appeal 
to  an  Ulster  Volunteer  ;  and  it  is  conceivable  that 
even  a  Nationalist  might  resent  the  sly  shaft  at  the 
national  pugnacity.  The  opening  stanza  tells  about 
an  old  man,  whose  name  of  portent  is  Edward 
Carson  Maclntyre.  His  little  grandchild  runs  in 
to  him  from  the  field  carrying  a  dark  round  thing 

H3 


Contemporary   'Poets 

that  she  has  found,  and  she  trundles  it  along  the 
floor  to  the  old  man's  feet. 

Now  Edward  Carson  Maclntyre 

Was  old,  his  eyes  were  dim, 
But  when  he  heard  the  crackling  sound, 

New  life  returned  to  him. 
"  Some  tax-collector's  skull,"  he  swore, 
"  We  used  to  crack  them  by  the  score." 

"  Why  did  you  crack  them,  grandpapa  ?  " 

Said  wee  Victoria  May  ; 
"  It  surely  was  a  wicked  thing 

These  hapless  men  to  slay." 
"  The  cause  I  have  forgot,"  said  Mac. 
"  All  I  remember  is  the  crack." 

"  And  some  men  said  the  Government 

Were  very  much  to  blame  ; 

And  I  myself,"  says  Maclntyre, 
"  Got  my  own  share  of  fame. 
I  don't  know  why  we  fought,"  says  he, 
"  But  'twas  the  devil  of  a  spree." 

Again  it  is  possible  (though  hardly  probable  one 
would  think)  that  Mr  George  Moore  does  not  really 
enjoy  the  fun  so  cleverly  poked  at  him  in  the  stanzas, 
"  George  Moore  Comes  to  Ireland."  Safe  in  our 
own  detachment,  the  criticism  seems  delicious, 
brightly  hitting  off  the  personality  which  has  grown 
so  familiar  in  Mr  Moore's  work,  and  especially  in 

144 


An  Irish   Group 

"  Hail  and  Farewell "  :  the  delightful  garrulity, 
the  disconcerting  candour,  the  intimacy  and  naive 
egoism,  and  the  perfectly  transparent  what-a-terror- 
I-was-in-my-youth  air.  The  speaker  in  the  poem 
is,  of  course,  Mr  Moore  himself  ;  and  it  will  be 
seen  how  cunningly  the  author  has  caught  his 
attitude,  particularly  to  the  work  of  Mr  W.  B. 
Yeats — 

I  haven't  tried  potato  cake  or  Irish  stew  as  yet  ; 
I've  lived  on  eggs  and  bacon,  and  striven  to  forget 
A  naughty  past  of  ortolan  and  frothy  omelette. 

But  W.  B.  was  the  boy  for  me — he  of  the  dim,  wan 

clothes  ; 

And — don't  let  on  I  said  it — not  above  a  bit  of  pose  ; 
And  they  call  his  writing  literature,  as  everybody  knows. 

If  you  like  a  stir,  or  want  a  stage,  or  would  admired  be, 
Prepare  with  care  a  naughty  past,  and  then  repent  like 

me. 
My  past,  alas  !  was  blameless,  but  this  the  world  won't 

see. 

When  Miss  Mitchell's  satire  is  engaged  on  per- 
sonalities in  this  way,  it  has  a  piquancy  which  may 
obscure  the  subtler  flavour  of  it.  But  the  truth  is 
that  it  is  often  literary  in  a  double  sense,  both  in 
subject  and  in  treatment.  So  we  may  find  a  theme 
of  considerable  general  interest  in  the  world  of 

K  145 


Contemporary   ^Poets 

literature,  treated  in  the  allusive  literary  manner 
which  has  so  much  charm  for  the  booklover.  And 
to  that  is  added  a  racy  and  vigorous  satirical  touch. 
Thus,  for  instance,  is  the  question  of  Synge's  Playboy 
handled.  Ridicule  is  thrown  on  the  stupid  rage 
with  which  it  was  received,  and  on  the  folly  which 
generalized  so  hotly  from  the  play  to  the  nation, 
deducing  wild  nonsense  against  a  whole  people 
and  its  literature  because  the  man  who  killed  his 
father  in  the  story  is  befriended  by  peasants.  Here 
is  a  snatch  of  it  : 

I  can't  love  Plato  any  more 
Because  a  man  called  Sophocles, 

Who  lived  in  distant  Attica, 
Wrote  a  great  drama  (Edipus, 

About  a  Greek  who  killed  his  da. 
I  know  now  Plato  was  a  sham, 

And  Socrates  I  brush  aside, 
For  Phidias  I  don't  care  a  damn, 

For  every  Greek's  a  parricide. 

So,  too,  comes  the  burlesque  touch  in  the  "  Ode 
to  the  British  Empire  "  : 

God  of  the  Irish  Protestant, 
Lord  of  our  proud  Ascendancy, 

Soon  there'll  be  none  of  us  extant, 
We  want  a  few  plain  words  with  thee. 
Thou  know'st  our  hearts  are  always  set 
On  what  we  get,  on  what  we  get. 

146 


An  Irish   Group 

The  genial  temper  of  this  work  pervades  even  the 
political  pieces.  Miss  Mitchell  is  no  respecter  of 
persons  or  institutions  :  she  finds  food  for  derision 
in  friend  as  well  as  foe.  But  her  laughter  is  not 
bitter — unless,  perhaps,  a  tinge  comes  in  when  she 
touches  that  old  source  of  bitterness,  the  gulf 
between  the  Saxon  and  the  Celt — 

We  are  a  pleasant  people,  the  laugh  upon  our  lip 
Gives  answer  back  to  your  laugh  in  gay  good  fellowship  ; 
We  dance  unto  your  piping,  we  weep  when  you  want 

tears  ; 
Wear  a  clown's  dress  to  please  you,  and  to  your  friendly 

jeers 

Turn  up  a  broad  fool's  face  and  wave  a  flag  of  green — 
But  the  naked  heart  of  Ireland,  who,  who  has  ever  seen  ? 

There  is,  however,  a  more  important  strain  of 
heredity  in  the  new  Irish  poetry  ;  and  it  comes 
directly  through  the  renaissance  of  which  we  have 
already  spoken.  There  are  two  lines  of  development 
which  begin  in  that  rebirth  ;  but  they  proceed 
almost  at  right  angles  from  each  other.  One,  the 
clearer  and  more  direct,  is  towards  work  of  a  specifi- 
cally literary  order.  The  other  is  tending  to  a 
simple  and  direct  rendering  of  life.  On  the  one 
hand  we  find  poetry  which  is  romantic  in  manner 
and  heroic  in  theme.  This  is  largely  of  narrative 
form,  and  seems  to  hold  within  it  the  promise  of 

H7 


Contemporary   'Poets 

epic  growth.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  lyric 
form  of  less  pretension  and  wilder  grace  ;  music  so 
fresh  and  apparently  artless  as  to  mock  the  idea  of 
derivation.  Yet  it,  too,  owes  its  vitality  to  the  same 
impulse,  and  is,  perhaps,  its  healthiest  blossoming. 

The  treasury  of  Irish  romance  has  been  eagerly 
drawn  upon  by  the  literary  poet  ;  and  splendid 
stories  they  are  for  his  purpose.  Every  one  by  this 
time  knows  the  incomparable  Deirdre  legend,  in 
one  or  other  of  the  fine  versions  by  Mr  Yeats, 
Mr  Trench  or  Synge.  Deirdre,  as  a  heroine  of  the 
ancient  world,  positively  shines  beside  a  Helen  or  a 
Cleopatra.  In  her  is  crystallized  the  Celtic  con- 
ception of  womanhood,  with  her  free,  clean,  brave, 
generous  soul ;  magnificently  choosing  her  true  mate 
rather  than  wed  the  High  King  Conchubar  ;  and  with 
her  lover  magnificently  paying  the  penalty  of  death. 

We  have  become  almost  as  familiar,  too,  with  the 
Hosting  of  Maeve,  the  prowess  of  Cuchulain,  and 
the  mythological  figures  of  Dagda  and  Dana,  who 
are  the  Zeus  and  Hera  of  early  Irish  religion.  Here 
is  a  fragment  of  a  poem  by  Mr  James  Cousins 
called  "The  Marriage  of  Lir  and  Niav."  The 
personages  of  the  story  belong  to  very  early  myth. 
To  find  Lir  you  must  go  back  past  the  heroes  and 
the  demigods  :  further  still,  past  the  gods  them- 
selves, to  their  ancestors.  For  Lir  was  the  father 
148 


An  Irish   Group 

of  Mananan  the  sea-god  ;  and  he  was  the  Lord  of 
the  Seven  Isles.  Niav  (or  Niamh)  is  described  as 
the  Aphrodite  of  Irish  myth  ;  which  probably 
accounts  for  the  symbolism  in  the  passage  where 
Lir  first  sees  her — 

But,  as  upon  the  breathless  hour  of  eve, 
The  gentle  moon,  smiling  amid  the  wreck 
And  splendid  remnant  of  the  flaming  feast 
Wherewith  Day's  lord  had  sated  half  the  world, 
Sets  a  cool  hand  on  the  tumultuous  waves, 
And  soothes  them  into  peace,  and  takes  the  throne, 
And  beams  white  love  that  wakens  soft  desire 
In  waiting  hearts  ;  so  in  that  throbbing  pause 
Came  Niav,  daughter  of  the  King  whose  name 
May  not  be  named  till  First  and  Last  are  one. 

.  .  .  And  He  who  stood 
Unseen,  apart,  marked  how  about  Her  form, 
Clothed  white  as  foam,  Her  sea-green  girdle  hung 
Like  mermaid  weed,  and  how  within  her  wake 
There  came  the  sound  and  odour  of  the  sea, 
The  swift  and  silent  stroke  of  unseen  wings, 
And  little  happy  cries  of  mating  birds  ; 

This  poem  appeared  in  one  of  Mr  Cousins 
earlier  books,  The  Quest,  published  in  1904  ;  and  it 
is  interesting  to  observe  in  it  the  little  signs  which 
indicate  the  nearness  of  the  poet  at  that  time  to 
the  source  of  his  inspiration.  The  stories  from  the 
three  great  national  cycles  of  romance  had  been 
made  accessible  in  the  years  just  preceding  ;  and  the 

149 


Contemporary   *Poets 

poetic  imagination  seems  to  have  been  charmed  by 
their  quaint  manner  as  well  as  stimulated  by  their 
vigour.  Hence  we  find  in  this  poem  one  or  two 
familiar  epic  devices  which  have  apparently  been 
adopted  as  a  means  to  catch  the  tone  of  the  old 
story,  and  to  convey  a  sense  of  its  antiquity.  There 
is,  for  instance,  the  trick  of  repetition  that  we  know 
so  well,  a  whole  phrase  recurring,  either  word  for 
word  or  varied  very  slightly,  at  certain  intervals 
through  the  poem.  Thus  we  have  the  phrase 
which  appears  in  the  passage  quoted  above,  and 
which  is  several  times  repeated  in  other  places — 

— the  King  whose  name 
May  not  be  named  till  First  and  Last  are  one. 

Thus,  too,  we  find  the  frequent  use  of  simile  of 
an  involved  and  elaborate  order.  Mr  Cousins 
reveals  himself  as  poet  and  artist  in  this  device  alone, 
Imagination  and  mastery  of  technique  are  alike 
implied  in  fancies  so  beautifully  wrought.  The 
opening  lines  of  the  passage  we  have  given  supply 
an  example,  and  another  may  be  taken  from 
"  Etain  the  Beloved."  It  is  simpler  than  most,  but 
it  illustrates  very  aptly  the  grace  of  idea  and  ex- 
pression which  is  characteristic  of  this  poet.  The 
scene  is  an  assembly  of  the  people  before  King 
Eochaidh  ;  and  the  chief  bard  is  presenting  their 
urgent  petition  to  him— 
150 


An  Irish   Group 

He  ceased,  and  all  the  faces  of  the  crowd 
Shone  with  the  light  that  kindles  when  the  boon 
Of  speech  has  eased  the  heart  ;  as  when  a  cloud 
Falls  from  the  labouring  shoulder  of  the  moon, 
And  all  the  world  stands  smiling  silver-browed. 

In  the  same  poem  of  Etain  we  may  note  the  free 
use  of  description  and  the  rich  colour  and  profuse 
detail  which  mark  romantic  work  of  this  kind.  The 
story  of  Etain  has  a  mythological  association.  She 
was  the  beloved  wife  of  Mider,  one  of  the  ancient 
gods  ;  but  she  seems  to  have  been  driven  out  of 
the  hierarchy  and  to  have  become  incarnate  in 
the  form  of  a  young  girl  of  great  beauty.  King 
Eochiadh,  not  knowing  of  her  divine  origin,  wooed 
her  and  made  her  queen.  But  Mider  followed  her 
to  earth  and  won  her  back  from  her  human  lover. 
There  is  an  exquisite  stanza  in  which  the  King 
sends  to  seek  for  his  bride,  and  tells  how  they  will 
find  her — 

"  She  shall  be  found  in  some  most  quiet  place 
Where  Beauty  sits  all  day  beside  her  knee 
And  looks  with  happy  envy  on  her  face  ; 
Where  Virtue  blushes,  her  own  guilt  to  see, 
And  Grace  learns  new,  sweet  meanings  from  her  grace ; 
Where  all  that  ever  was  or  will  be  wise 
Pales  at  the  burning  wisdom  of  her  eyes." 

News  is  brought  to  the  King  that  Etain  is  found, 
and  he  goes  to  the  remote  and  lonely  place  that 


Contemporary   'Poets 

his  messengers  have  told  him  of.     He  comes  upon 
her  unaware — 

There  by  the  sea,  Etain  his  destined  bride 

Sat  unabashed,  unwitting  of  the  sight 

Of  him  who  gazed  upon  her  gleaming  side, 

Fair  as  the  snowfall  of  a  single  night  ; 

Her  arms  like  foam  upon  the  flowing  tide  ; 

Her  curd-white  limbs  in  all  their  beauty  bare, 

Straight  as  the  rule  of  Dagda's  carpenter. 

There  is,  too,  in  this  poetry  of  Mr  Cousins,  a 
very  tender  feeling  for  Nature.  Perhaps  it  does  not 
quite  accord  with  the  spirit  of  the  wild  time  out  of 
which  the  stories  came  ;  but  that  opens  up  a  larger 
question  into  which  we  are  not  bound  to  enter. 
For  if  we  are  going  to  quarrel  with  the  treatment 
of  epic  material  in  any  but  the  vigorous,  '  primitive  ' 
manner,  we  shall  make  ourselves  the  poorer  by 
rejecting  much  beautiful  poetry.  We  may  even 
find  ourselves  robbed  of  Virgilian  sweetness.  But 
most  of  us  will  be  wise  enough  to  take  good  things 
wherever  we  find  them  ;  and  may,  therefore,  re- 
joice in  stanzas  like  these,  which  describe  the 
stirring  of  wild  creatures  at  dawn  : 

Somewhere  the  snipe  now  taps  his  tiny  drum  ; 
The  moth  goes  fluttering  upward  from  the  heath  ; 
And  where  no  lightest  foot  unmarked  may  come, 
The  rabbit,  tiptoe,  plies  his  shiny  teeth 
On  luscious  herbage  ;   and  with  strident  hum 

152 


An  Irish   Group 

The  yellow  bees,  blustering  from  flower  to  flower, 
Scatter  from  dew-filled  cups  a  sparkling  shower. 

The  meadowsweet  shakes  out  its  feathery  mass  ; 

And  rumorous  winds,  that  stir  the  silent  eaves, 

Bearing  abroad  faint  perfumes  as  they  pass, 

Thrill  with  some  wondrous  tale  the  fluttering  leaves, 

And  whisper  secretly  along  the  grass 

Where  gossamers,  for  day's  triumphal  march, 

Hang  out  from  blade  to  blade  their  diamond  arch. 

There  is,  however,  a  very  different  manner  in 
which  these  early  legends  are  being  treated  by 
some  of  the  Irish  poets.  One  may  call  it  '  Celtic,' 
in  the  hope  of  conveying  some  impression  of  it  in 
a  single  word.  But  if  you  would  get  nearer  than 
that,  you  may  take  one  or  two  fragments  from  Mr 
Yeats'  The  Celtic  Twilight — such  as  "  the  voice  of 
Celtic  sadness  and  of  Celtic  longing  for  infinite 
things  .  .  .  the  vast  and  vague  extravagance  that 
lies  at  trie  bottom  of  the  Celtic  heart."  And  to 
phrases  like  that,  which  adumbrate  the  spirit  of 
the  work,  you  must  add  a  style  which  is  allusive, 
mystic,  and  symbolical  :  in  fact,  a  mode  of  expres- 
sion rather  like  Mr  Yeats'  own  early  poetry.  But 
the  crux  of  the  matter  lies  there.  For  the  pro- 
duction of  really  good  work  of  this  kind  demands 
just  the  equipment  which  Mr  Yeats  happens  to 
possess :  the  right  temperament  and  the  right  degree 
(a  high  one)  of  poetic  craftsmanship.  It  is  a 

153 


Contemporary 

rare  combination — unique,  of  course,  in  so  far  as 
the  element  of  individuality  enters.  And  attempts 
which  have  been  made  to  gain  the  same  effects 
with  a  different  natural  endowment  have  failed  in 
proportion  as  temperament  was  unsuited  or  '  the 
capacity  for  taking  pains  '  was  less.  Hence  '  Celtic  ' 
poetry,  in  the  specific  sense,  has  fallen  into  some 
disfavour.  Yet  when  mood  and  material  and  craft 
6  have  met  and  kissed  each  other,'  it  is  clear  that 
authentic  beauty  is  created  ;  and  that  of  a  kind 
which  cannot  be  made  in  any  other  way.  Thus  we 
might  choose,  from  the  romantic  work  of  Miss  Eva 
Gore  Booth,  passages  where  all  the  desirable  qualities 
seem  to  meet.  There  is,  for  instance,  the  poem 
which  prefaces  her  Triumph  of  Maeve,  from  which 
I  take  the  last  two  stanzas.  Here  is  finely  caught 
that  unrest  of  soul  which  we  have  been  taught  to 
believe  essentially  Celtic  ;  though  it  probably  haunts 
every  imaginative  mind,  of  whatever  race. 

There  is  no  rest  for  the  soul  that  has  seen  the  wild  eyes 

of  Maeve  ; 
No  rest  for  the  heart  once  caught  in  the  net  of  her 

yellow  hair — 

No  quiet  for  the  fallen  wind, no  peace  for  the  broken  wave; 
Rising  and  falling,  falling  and  rising  with  soft    sounds 

everywhere, 
There  is  no  rest  for  the  soul  that  has  seen  the  wild  eyes 

of  Maeve. 

154 


An  Irish   Group 

I  have  seen  Maeve  of  the  Battles  wandering  over  the 

hill 
And  I  know  that  the  deed  that  is  in  my  heart  is  her 

deed; 
And  my  soul  is  blown  about  by  the  wild  winds  of  her 

will, 
For  always  the  living  must  follow  whither  the  dead 

would  lead — 
I  have  seen  Maeve  of  the  Battles  wandering  over  the 

hill. 

From  the  same  romance  we  may  select  a  speech 
by  Fiona  var,  Queen  Maeve's  beautiful  young 
daughter.  The  sense  of  the  supernatural  enters 
here,  for  the  occasion  is  Samhain,  the  pagan  All 
Souls'  Eve.  It  is  a  night  when  gods  and  fairies  are 
abroad,  and  Fionavar  has  seen  things  strange  and 
awesome  : 

As  I  came  down  the  valley  after  dark, 
The  little  golden  dagger  at  my  breast 
Flashed  into  fire  lit  by  a  sudden  spark  ; 
I  saw  the  lights  flame  on  the  haunted  hill, 
My  soul  was  blown  about  by  a  strange  wind. 
Though  the  green  fir  trees  rose  up  stark  and  still 
Against  the  sky,  yet  in  my  haunted  mind 
They  bent  and  swayed  before  a  magic  storm  : 
A  wave  of  darkness  thundered  through  the  sky, 
And  drowned  the  world.  .  .  . 

In  Nero's  Song,  again,  as  in  the  whole  romance, 

155 


Contemporary  T^oets 

we  find  the  element  of  dreams  which  is  supposed 
to  be  an  indubitable  sign  of  the  Celtic  tempera- 
ment. Nera,  who  is  the  Queen's  bard,  has  just 
returned  after  an  absence  of  one  whole  year  in  the 
Land  of  Faery  ;  and  though  it  is  autumn,  his  arms 
are  full  of  primroses,  the  fairies'  magical  flower  : 

I  bring  you  all  my  dreams,  O  golden  Maeve, 
There  are  no  dreams  in  all  the  world  like  these 
The  dreams  of  Spring,  the  golden  fronds  that  wave 
In  faery  land  beneath  dark  forest-trees, — 
I  bring  you  all  my  dreams. 

I  bring  you  all  my  dreams,  Fionavar, 
From  that  dim  land  where  every  dream  is  sweet, 
I  have  brought  you  a  little  shining  star, 
I  strew  my  primroses  beneath  your  feet, 
I  bring  you  all  my  dreams. 

There  is  yet  another  style  in  which  the  heroic 
tales  are  occasionally  treated,  and  it  is  directly 
contrasted  with  either  of  those  which  we  have  just 
considered.  Examples  of  it  may  be  found  in  Miss 
Alice  Milligan's  book  of  Hero  Lays,  where  it  will  be 
seen  that  the  poet's  chief  concern  is  with  the  story 
itself,  rather  than  with  the  manner  of  telling.  In 
such  a  piece  as  "  Brian  of  Banba,"  for  instance,  the 
action  is  clear  and  moves  rapidly.  There  is  a  sense 
of  morning  air  and  light  in  the  poem  which  is  very 


An  Irish   Group 

refreshing  after  the  atmosphere  of  golden  afternoon, 
or  evening  twilight,  in  which  we  have  been  wander- 
ing. It  comes  partly  from  the  blithe  swing  of 
the  rhythm  :  partly  from  the  vigour  and  clear 
strength  of  diction.  And  a  true  dramatic  sense 
imparts  the  life  and  movement  of  quickly  changing 
emotion. 

Banba  is  one  of  the  many  beautiful  old  names  for 
Ireland  ;  and  Brian  was  perhaps  her  greatest  king. 
He  lived  about  the  time  of  our  English  Alfred  and, 
like  him,  Brian  fought  continually  against  the 
invading  Dane.  He,  too,  when  a  young  man,  lived 
for  a  long  time  the  life  of  an  outlaw — outcast  even 
from  his  own  clan  because  he  would  not  suffer  the 
Danish  yoke.  The  poem  relates  an  incident  of 
Brian's  appearance  at  the  palace  of  his  brother,  King 
Mahon,  after  a  long  absence.  He  strides  into  the 
gay  assembly  alone,  his  body  worn  thin  by  priva- 
tion and  his  garments  ragged. 

"  Brian,  my  brother,"  said  the    King,  in  a  tone  of 

scornful  wonder, 
"  Why  dost   thou   come  in    beggar-guise   our    palace 

portals  under  ? 
Where  hast  thou  wandered  since  yester  year,  on  what 

venture  of  love  hast  thou  tarried  ? 
Tell   us  the   count   of   thy   prey  of   deer,    and   what 

cattleherds  thou  hast  harried. 


157 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

"  I    have  hunted  no  deer   since  yester  year,   I   have 

harried  no  neighbour's  cattle, 
I  have  wooed  no  love,   I  have  joined  no  game,   save 

the  kingly  game  of  battle  ; 
The  Danes  were  my  prey  by  night  and  day,  in  their 

forts  of  hill  and  hollow, 
And  I  come  from  the  desert -lands  alone,  since  none 

are  alive  to  follow. 
Some  were  slain  on  the  plundered  plain,  and  some  in 

the  midnight  marching  ; 
Some  were  lost  in  the  winter  floods,  and  some  by  the 

fever  parching  ; 
Some  have  perished  by  wounds  of   spears,  and  some 

by  the  shafts  of  bowmen  ; 
And  some  by  hunger  and  some  by  thirst,  and  all  are 

dead  ;   but  they  slaughtered  first 

Their  tenfold  more  of  their  foemen." 

The  King  impulsively  offers  him  gifts  for  a  reward, 
but  Brian  declines  them  : 

"  I  want  no  cattle  from  out  your  herds,  no  share  of 

your  shining  treasure  ; 
But  grant  me  now  " — and  he  turned  to  look  on  the 

listening  warriors'  faces — 
"  A  hundred  more  of  the  clan  Dal  Cas,  to  follow  me 

over  plain  and  pass  : 
To    die,  as   fitteth  the   brave  Dal  Cas,  at   war   with 

the  Outland  races." 

It   must    not  be   supposed,  however,  that   these 
poets   are   working   solely   upon   romantic   themes, 


An  Irish   Group 

more  or  less  in  the  epic  manner.  On  the  contrary, 
direct  treatment  of  the  saga  is  declining,  even  with 
the  poets  who,  like  those  we  have  named,  were 
formerly  preoccupied  with  it.  Mr  Cousins'  volume 
of  1915  is  sharply  symptomatic  of  the  change. 
Subjects  of  more  social  and  more  immediate  interest 
are  engaging  attention,  and  legendary  material  is 
passing  into  a  phase  of  allusion  and  symbol.  Con- 
currently, there  is  a  development  of  the  pure  lyric 
which  gives  great  promise,  being  sound  and 
sweet  and  vigorous.  It  has  all  the  signs  of 
vitality,  drawing  its  inspiration  directly  from 
life,  keeping  close  to  the  earth,  as  it  were,  and 
often  dealing  with  the  large  and  simple  things  of 
existence. 

One  may  not  make  too  precise  a  claim  here  for 
affiliation  with  the  literary  revival ;  but  observing 
the  movement  broadly,  it  would  appear  that  this 
is  its  more  popular  manifestation,  springing  out 
of  the  devotion  to  the  old  language  of  the  country, 
its  folklore  and  the  life  of  its  people.  That 
current  of  the  stream  would  touch  actual 
existence  much  more  closely  than  aesthetic  or 
academic  study  ;  and  while  one  might  regard  Lady 
Gregory  and  Mr  Yeats  as  the  pioneers  of  the 
movement  on  the  specifically  literary  side,  on  the 
other  hand  there  are  Dr  Hyde,  A.  E.,  and  others, 

159 


Contemporary   'Poets 

whose  influence  must  have  counted  largely  in  these 
new  lyrics  of  life. 

There  are  about  half  a  dozen  poets  who  are 
making  these  sweet,  fresh  songs.  They  have  not 
published  very  much,  but  that  follows  from  the 
nature  of  the  medium  in  which  they  are  working. 
Lyrical  rapture  is  brief,  and  the  form  of  its  expres- 
sion correspondingly  small.  Very  seldom  can  it  be 
sustained  so  long  and  so  keenly  as,  for  example,  in 
Mr  Stephens'  "  Prelude  and  a  Song,"  for  the  wise 
poet  accepts  the  natural  limits  of  inspiration  and 
technique.  But  this  little  group  does  not,  of  course, 
include  all  the  Irish  lyrists.  The  poets  whom  we 
may  describe  as  literary — who  have,  at  any  rate, 
the  more  obvious  connexion  with  the  revival — 
have  made  beautiful  lyrics  too.  But  they  are 
sharply  contrasted  in  subject  or  style,  or  both, 
with  those  others.  Thus  we  may  take  a  "  Spring 
Rondel  "  by  Mr  Cousins,  which  is  supposed  to  be 
sung  by  a  starling  : 

I  clink  my  Castanet, 

And  beat  my  little  drum  ; 

For  spring  at  last  has  come, 
And  on  my  parapet 
Of  chestnut,  gummy-wet, 

Where  bees  begin  to  hum, 
I  clink  my  Castanet, 

And  beat  my  little  drum. 

160 


An  Irish   Group 

"  Spring  goes,"  you  say,  "  suns  set." 

So  be  it  !    Why  be  glum  ? 

Enough,  the  spring  has  come  ; 
And  without  fear  or  fret 
I  clink  my  Castanet, 

And  beat  my  little  drum. 

The  lyrical  virtues  of  that  need  no  emphasis  : 
the  quick,  true  reflection  of  a  mood  :  the  lightness 
of  touch  and  grace  of  expression.  It  is,  however, 
mainly  by  qualities  of  form  that  one  is  delighted 
here — the  art's  the  thing.  To  make  a  rondel  at  all 
seems  an  achievement  ;  and  to  make  it  so  daintily, 
with  playful  fancy  and  feeling  caught  to  the  nicest 
shade,  almost  compels  wonder.  But  that  is  char- 
acteristic of  the  kind  of  verse  of  which  I  am 
speaking,  another  aspect  of  which  may  be  seen  in 
a  captivating  fragment  which  has  been  translated 
by  this  poet  from  the  Irish  of  some  period  before 
the  tenth  century.  It  is  called  "  The  Student  "  ;  and 
to  find  the  like  of  it,  with  its  combined  love  of 
nature  and  of  learning,  one  must  seek  a  certain 
'  Clerk  of  Oxenford '  and  endow  him  with  the 
spirit  of  his  own  springtime  poet — 

High  on  my  hedge  of  bush  and  tree 
A  blackbird  sings  his  song  to  me, 
And  far  above  my  lined  book 
I  hear  the  voice  of  wren  and  rook. 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

From  the  bush-top,  in  garb  of  grey, 
The  cuckoo  calls  the  hours  of  day. 
Right  well  do  I — God  send  me  good  ! — 
Set  down  my  thoughts  within  the  wood. 

It  is  not  often  that  these  poets  are  occupied 
with  "  Modern  Movements,"  wherein  they  differ 
from  their  English  contemporaries.  For  that 
reason,  it  is  the  more  significant  that  one  public 
question  has  moved  them  deeply.  Thus  we  find 
Miss  Mitchell  writing  of  womanhood  : 

Oh,  what  to  us  your  little  slights  and  scorns, 
You  who  dethrone  us  with  a  careless  breath. 
God  made  us  awful  queens  of  birth  and  death, 
And  set  upon  our  brows  His  crown  of  thorns. 

And  Miss  Gore-Booth,  thinking  of  the  sheltered 
ignorance  of  many  of  the  women  who  opposed  the 
suffrage  for  their  sex,  makes  a  little  parable  : 

The  princess  in  her  world-old  tower  pined 
A  prisoner,  brazen-caged,  without  a  gleam 
Of  sunlight,  or  a  windowful  of  wind  ; 
She  lived  but  in  a  long  lamp-lighted  dream. 

They  brought  her  forth  at  last  when  she  was  old  ; 
The  sunlight  on  her  blanched  hair  was  shed 
Too  late  to  turn  its  silver  into  gold. 
"  Ah,  shield  me  from  this  brazen  glare  ! "  she  said. 

162 


An  Irish   Group 

Mr  Cousins,  too,  has  several  noble  sonnets  on  the 
theme,  from  which  we  may  select  part  of  the  one 
called  "  To  the  Suffragettes  "  : 

Who  sets  her  shoulder  to  the  Cross  of  Christ, 
Lo  !  she  shall  wear  sharp  scorn  upon  her  brow  ; 
And  she  whose  hand  is  put  to  Freedom's  plough 
May  not  with  sleek  Expediency  make  tryst  : 

O  fateful  heralds,  charged  with  Time's  decree, 
Whose  feet  with  doom  have  compassed  Error's  wall ; 
Whose  lips  have  blown  the  trump  of  Destiny 
Till  ancient  thrones  are  shaking  toward  their  fall ; 
Shout  !   for  the  Lord  hath  given  to  you  the  free 
New  age  that  comes  with  great  new  hope  to  all. 

The  main  point  of  contrast,  in  turning  to  the 
more  '  popular  '  lyrics,  is  their  simplicity.  It  is  a 
difference  of  manner  as  well  as  of  material.  You 
will  not  find  in  this  verse  either  an  elaborate 
metrical  form,  or  the  treatment  of  questions  such 
as  that  which  we  have  just  noted.  Those  things 
belong  to  a  more  complex  condition,  both  of  life 
and  of  letters,  than  that  which  is  reflected  here.  And 
if  such  a  contrast  always  implied  separation  in  time, 
we  could  believe  ourselves  to  be  in  a  different 
epoch — a  younger  and  more  ingenuous  age.  But 
that,  of  course,  by  no  means  follows.  Even  if  we 
regard  it  as  figured  by  a  kind  of  separation  in  space, 

163 


Contemporary   'Poets 

with  town  and  university  on  the  one  hand  and  the 
broad  land  and  toiling  people  on  the  other,  it  is 
still  too  arbitrary  and,  moreover,  it  is  incomplete. 
No  room  is  found  for  the  wanderers  in  neutral 
territory. 

The  contrast  is  rather  like  that  between  the 
newer  English  poetry  and  the  old.  It  is  indicative 
of  a  current  of  thought  which  is  running  throughout 
Europe,  and  which  may  be  ob-erved  in  England, 
stimulating  the  more  vital  work  of  contemporary 
poets.  That,  crudely  stated,  is  a  perception  of  the 
value  of  life — of  the  whole  of  life,  sense  and  spirit, 
heart  and  brain  and  soul.  As  the  poet  is  seized 
by  it,  he  is  carried  into  a  larger  and  more  vivid 
world,  one  of  manifold  significance  and  beauty  which 
he  had  never  before  perceived.  He  grasps  eagerly 
at  all  the  stuff  of  existence,  persistently  seeks  his 
inspiration  in  life  instead  of  in  literature,  and  having 
rejected  the  artifice  of  conventional  terminology, 
begins  to  create  a  new  kind  of  poetry. 

Now  that  undercurrent  is  not  visible  in  a  super- 
ficial glance  at  this  Irish  poetry.  Even  native 
critics  seem  to  have  missed  it,  or  tend  to  refer  it  to 
anything  rather  than  to  the  whole  movement  of 
the  national  mind  towards  reality.  But  that  is  not 
surprising,  indeed.  /  For  the  limpidity  of  these 
lyrics  is  quite  untroubled  ;  they  are  innocent  of 
164 


An  Irish   Group 

ulterior  purpose,  and  free  from  the  least  chill  of 
philosophical  questioning  into  origins  or  ends.  The 
impulse  out  of  which  they  came  is  instinctive  : 
their  very  art,  at  least  in  the  selection  of  themes, 
is  spontaneous.  An  excellent  example  is  the  whole 
volume  by  Mr  Joseph  Campbell  called  The 
Mountainy  Singer.  He  has  another,  Irishry,  but 
although  that  is  very  interesting  in  its  studies  of 
Irish  life,  it  is  not  so  good  as  poetry,  nor  is  it  so 
apt  to  our  present  purpose,  because  a  tinge  of 
self-consciousness  has  crept  into  it.  Let  us  take, 
however,  the  piece  which  gives  its  name  to  the 
first  of  these  two  books : 

I  am  the  mount ainy  singer — 
The  voice  of  the  peasant's  dream, 
The  cry  of  the  wind  on  the  wooded  hill, 
The  leap  of  the  fish  in  the  stream. 

Quiet  and  love  I  sing — 
The  earn  on  the  mountain  crest, 
The  cailin  in  her  lover's  arms, 
The  child  at  its  mother's  breast. 


Sorrow  and  death  I  sing — 
The  canker  come  on  the  corn, 
The  fisher  lost  in  the  mountain  loch, 
The  cry  at  the  mouth  of  morn. 


Contemporary   *Poets 

No  other  life  I  sing, 
For  I  am  sprung  of  the  stock 
That  broke  the  hilly  land  for  bread, 
And  built  the  nest  in  the  rock  ! 

That  comes  directly  out  of  life,  and  the  con- 
fidence and  sincerity  of  it  are  a  result.  Thus  the 
Irish  poet  also  follows  the  impulse  towards  familiar 
human  experience  which  is  prompting  his  English 
contemporary.  And  partly  because  of  his  loyalty 
to  himself ;  partly  because  this  poet  happens 
to  be  in  touch  with  the  land — quite  literally  the 
oldest  and  commonest  thing  of  all,  except  the  sea 
— there  comes  into  his  poetry  a  sense  of  natural 
dignity  and  strength.  His  themes  are  simple  and 
touched  with  universal  significance.  Thus  there  is 
the  song  of  ploughing  : 

I  will  go  with  my  father  a-ploughing 

To  the  green  field  by  the  sea, 

And  the  rooks  and  the  crows  and  the  seagulls 

Will  come  flocking  after  me. 

I  will  sing  to  the  patient  horses 

With  the  lark  in  the  white  of  the  air, 

And  my  father  will  sing  the  plough-song 

That  blesses  the  cleaving  share. 

One  finds,  too,  a  song  of  reaping,  and  one  of  winter, 
and  one  of  night. 

There  is  a  love-song,  pretty  and  tender,  and 
166 


An  Irish   Group 

fresh  with  the  suggestion  of  breezes  and  blue  skies, 
which  begins  like  this  : 

My  little  dark  love  is  a  wineberry, 
As  swarth  and  as  sweet,  I  hold  ; 
But  as  the  dew  on  the  wineberry 
Her  heart  is  a -cold. 

There  is  a  piece,  in  Irishry,  which  tells  of  the 
wonder  of  childhood,  and  another  in  the  same  book 
which  reverently  touches  the  thought  of  mother- 
hood and  old  age : 

As  a  white  candle 
In  a  holy  place, 
So  is  the  beauty 
Of  an  aged  face. 

As  the  spent  radiance 
Of  the  winter  sun, 
So  is  a  woman 
When  her  travail  done. 

Her  brood  gone  from  her, 
And  her  thoughts  as  still 
As  the  waters 
Under  a  ruined  mill. 

So  we  might  turn  from  one  to  another  of  these 
old  and  ever-new  themes  :  not  alone  in  this  poet's 
work,  but  also  in  that  of  Mr  Padraic  Colum,  whom 
he  resembles.  We  shall  notice  in  their  music  a 


Contemporary   'Poets 

characteristic  harmony.  It  is  a  blending  of  three 
diverse  elements  :  the  individual,  the  national,  and 
the  universal.  One  would  expect  a  discord  some- 
times ;  but  the  measure  of  the  success  of  this  verse 
is  that  it  contrives  to  be,  at  one  and  the  same  time, 
specifically  lyrical  (and  therefore  a  reflection  of 
personality),  definitely  Irish,  and  completely  human. 
Most  of  the  poems  will  illustrate  this,  but  for  an 
obvious  example  take  this  one  by  Mr  Campbell : 

I  met  a  walking -man  ; 

His  head  was  old  and  grey. 

I  gave  him  what  I  had 

To  crutch  him  on  his  way. 

The  man  was  Mary's  Son,  I'll  swear  ; 

A  glory  trembled  in  his  hair  ! 

And  since  that  blessed  day 

I've  never  known  the  pinch  : 

I  plough  a  broad  townland, 

And  dig  a  river-inch  ; 

And  on  my  hearth  the  fire  is  bright 

For  all  that  walk  by  day  or  night. 

If  one  found  that  on  a  bit  of  torn  paper  in  the 
wilds  of  Africa,  one  would  know  it  for  unquestion- 
able Irish.  There  are  half  a  dozen  signs,  but  the 
spirit  of  the  last  two  lines  is  enough.  The  element 
of  personality  is  there,  too  ;  clearly  visible  in  tone 
and  choice  of  words  to  those  who  know  the  poet's 
168 


An  Irish   Group 

work  a  little.  But  stronger  than  all  is  the  human 
note,  with  all  that  it  implies  of  man's  need  of 
religion,  his  incorrigible  habit  of  making  God  in 
his  own  image,  and  the  half  comical,  half  pathetic 
materialism  of  his  faith. 

There  are,  of  course,  some  occasions  when  the 
blending  is  unequal :  when  one  or  other  of  the  three 
elements,  usually  that  of  national  feeling,  weighs 
down  the  balance.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
are  many  pieces  in  which  it  is  very  intimate  and 
subtle.  Then  it  follows  that  the  poet  is  at  his  best, 
for  he  has  forgotten  the  immediacy  of  self  and 
country  and  the  world  of  men  and  things  in  the 
joy  of  singing.  Of  such  is  this  "  Cradle  Song  " 
by  Mr  Colum  : 

O,  men  from  the  fields  I 
Come  softly  within. 
Tread  softly,  softly, 
O  !  men  coming  in. 

Mavourneen  is  going 
From  me  and  from  you, 
To  Mary,  the  Mother, 
Whose  mantle  is  blue  ! 

From  reek  of  the  smoke 
And  cold  of  the  floor, 
And  the  peering  of  things 
Across  the  half -door. 

169 


Contemporary 


O,  men  from  the  fields  ! 
Soft,  softly  come  thro'. 
Mary  puts  round  him 
Her  mantle  of  blue. 

Such  also  is  Mr  Colum's  "  Ballad   Maker,"  from 
which  I  quote  the  first  and  last  stanzas  : 

Once  I  loved  a  maiden  fair, 

Over  the  bills  and,  far  away. 
Lands  she  had  and  lovers  to  spare, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 
And  I  was  stooped  and  troubled  sore, 
And  my  face  was  pale,  and  the  coat  I  wore 
Was  thin  as  my  supper  the  night  before. 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 


To-morrow,  Mavourneen  a  sleeveen  weds, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away  ; 
With  corn  in  haggard  and  cattle  in  shed, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 
And  I  who  have  lost  her — the  dear,  the  rare, 
Well,  I  got  me  this  ballad  to  sing  at  the  fair, 
'Twill  bring  enough  money  to  drown  my  care, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

It  is  an  arresting  fact,  however,  that  the  spirit 
of  nationality  is  strong  in  the  work  of  these  poets. 
True,  one  may  distinguish  between  a  national 
sense,  keen  and  directly  expressed,  and  the  almost 
170 


An  Irish   Group 

subconscious  influence  of  race.  The  first  is  a  theme 
deliberately  chosen  by  the  poet  and  variously  treated 
by  him.  It  is  a  conscious  and  direct  expression — of 
aspiration  or  regret.  Racial  influence  is  something 
deeper  and  more  constant  :  something,  too,  which 
quite  confounds  the  sceptic  on  this  particular  subject. 
Whether  from  inheritance  or  environment,  it  has 
'  bred  true  '  in  these  poets ;  and  it  will  be  found 
to  pervade  their  work  like  an  atmosphere.  It 
belongs  inalienably  to  themselves  :  it  is  of  the 
essence  of  their  genius,  and  it  is  revealed  every- 
where, in  little  things  as  in  great,  in  cadency  and 
idiom  as  well  as  in  an  attitude  to  life  and  a  certain 
range  of  ideas. 

But  though  we  may  make  the  distinction,  it  will 
hardly  do  to  disengage  the  strands,  because  they  are 
so  closely  bound  together.  We  may  only  note  the 
predominance  of  one  or  the  other,  with  an  occasional 
complete  and  perfect  combination.  Perhaps  the 
work  in  which  they  are  least  obvious  is  the  slim 
volume  of  Miss  Ella  Young.  But,  even  here,  and 
choosing  two  poems  where  the  artistic  instinct 
has  completely  subdued  its  material,  we  shall  find 
some  of  the  signs  that  we  are  looking  for  ;  and 
not  altogether  because  we  are  looking  for  them. 
Thus  a  sonnet,  called  "The  Virgin  Mother," 
suggests  its  origin  in  its  very  title  and,  moreover, 

171 


Contemporary  'Poets 

it  is  occupied  with  a  thought  of  death  and  a  sense 
of  blissful  quietude  which  are  familiar  in  Irish 
poetry. 

Now  Day's  worn  out,  and  Dusk  has  claimed  a  share 

Of  earth  and  sky  and  all  the  things  that  be, 

I  lay  my  tired  head  against  your  knee, 

And  feel  your  fingers  smooth  my  tangled  hair. 

I  loved  you  once,  when  I  had  heart  to  dare, 

And  sought  you  over  many  a  land  and  sea  ; 

Yet  all  the  while  you  waited  here  for  me 

In  a  sweet  stillness  shut  away  from  care. 

I  have  no  longing  now,  no  dreams  of  bliss. 

But  drowsed  in  peace  through  the  soft  gloom  I  wait 

Until  the  stars  be  kindled  by  God's  breath  ; 

For  then  you'll  bend  above  me  with  the  kiss 

Earth's  children  long  for  when  the  hour  grows  late, 

Mother  of  Consolation,  Sovereign  Death. 

In  the  blank-verse  piece  called  "  Twilight  "  it 
is  again  the  title  which  conveys  the  direct  sign  of 
affinity,  but  it  will  also  be  found  to  lurk  in  every 
line  : 

The  sky  is  silver-pale  with  just  one  star, 

One  lonely  wanderer  from  the  shining  host 

Of  Night's  companions.     Through  the  drowsy  woods 

The  shadows  creep  and  touch  with  quietness 

The  curling  fern-heads  and  the  ancient  trees. 

The  sea  is  all  a-glimmer  with  faint  lights 

That  change  and  move  as  if  the  unseen  prow 

Of  Niamh's  galley  cleft  its  waveless  floor, 

172 


An  Irish   Group 

And  Niamh  stood  there  with  the  magic  token, 
The  apple-branch  with  silver  singing  leaves. 
The  wind  has  stolen  away  as  though  it  feared 
To  stir  the  fringes  of  her  faery  mantle 
Dream-woven  in  the  Land  of  Heart's  Desire, 
And  all  the  world  is  hushed  as  though  she  called 
Ossian  again,  and  no  one  answered  her. 

Now  that,  in  inspiration  and  imagery,  is  very 
clearly  derived  from  native  legendary  sources.  But 
no  one  would  expect  to  find  in  such  work  a  direct 
expression  of  national  feeling.  The  backward- 
looking  poet,  the  one  who  is  drawn  instinctively 
to  old  themes  and  times,  has  not  usually  the  temper 
for  politics,  even  on  the  higher  plane.  Or  if  he 
have,  he  will  make  a  rigid  separation  in  style  and 
treatment  between  his  poetry  in  the  two  kinds. 
Thus  Miss  Milligan  sharply  differentiates  her  lays 
on  heroic  subjects  from  her  lyrics.  The  lays  try 
to  catch  the  spirit  of  the  age  out  of  which  the 
stories  came.  The  lyrics,  as  lyrics  should,  reflect 
no  other  spirit  than  the  poet's  own.  The  lays  are 
somewhat  strict  in  form  :  they  are  in  a  brisk  narra- 
tive style,  with  a  swinging  rhythm  and  plenty  of 
vigour.  The  songs,  depending  on  varying  sense 
impressions  and  fluctuating  emotion,  are  more 
irregular  as  to  form  and,  at  the  same  time,  stronger 
in  their  appeal  to  human  sympathy.  It  is  in  them 


Contemporary   T^oets 

that  the  poet  is  able  to  express  the  passionate  love 
of  country  which,  superimposed  on  a  deep  sense  of 
Ireland's  melancholy  history  and  an  intense  longing 
for  freedom,  is  the  birthright  of  so  many  Irish  poets. 
One  would  like  to  quote  entire  the  lovely  "  Song  of 
Freedom, "in  which  the  poet  hears  in  wind  and  wave 
and  brook  a  joyous  prophecy.  But  here  is  the  last 

stanza  : 

To  Ara  of  Connacht's  isles, 
As  I  went  sailing  o'er  the  sea, 
The  wind's  word,  the  brook's  word, 
The  wave's  word,  was  plain  to  me — 
"  As  we  are,  though  she  is  not 
As  we  are,  shall  Eanba  be — 
There  is  no  King  can  rule  the  wind 
There  is  no  fetter  for  the  sea." 

More    beautiful    and    significant,    perhaps,    is    a 
fragment  from  "  There  Were  Trees  in  Tir-Conal  "  : 

Fallen  in  Erin  are  all  those  leafy  forests  ; 

The  oaks  lie  buried  under  bogland  mould  ; 

Only  in  legends  dim  are  they  remembered, 

Only  in  ancient  books  their  fame  is  told. 

But  seers,  who  dream  of  times  to  come,  have  promised 

Forests  shall  rise  again  where  perished  these  ; 

And  of  this  desolate  land  it  shall  be  spoken, 

"  In  Tir-Conal  of  the  territories  there  are  trees." 

The  prophetic  figure  there,  of  course,  is  symbolical ; 
but  thinking  of  the  basis  it  has  in  fact — of  the  schemes 

'74 


An  Irish   Group 

which  are  afoot  in  the  Isle  for  afforestation — one 
cannot  help  wondering  whether  it  was  consciously 
suggested  by  them.  Not  that  there  need  be  the 
slightest  relation,  of  course.  The  poetical  soul  will 
often  take  a  leap  in  the  dark  and  reach  a  shining 
summit  long  before  the  careful  people  who  travel 
by  daylight  along  beaten  tracks  are  half  way  up 
the  hill.  Still,  there  is  proof  that  this  group  of 
writers  is  keenly  interested  in  the  question  of  the 
land  and  the  organized  effort  to  reclaim  it.  It  is 
the  more  practical  form  of  their  patriotism,  and  the 
sign  by  which  one  knows  it  for  something  more  than 
a  sentiment.  It  is  a  deeply  rooted  and  reasoned 
sense  that  the  well-being  of  a  nation,  and  therefore  its 
strength  and  greatness,  come  ultimately  from  the  soil 
and  depend  upon  the  close  and  faithful  relation  of  the 
people  to  it.  That  surely  is  the  conviction  which 
underlies  the  work  of  a  poet  like  Mr  Padraic  Colum, 
and  particularly  such  a  piece  as  his  "  Plougher  "  : 

Sunset  and  silence  !    A  man  :  around  him  earth  savage, 

earth  broken  ; 
Beside  him  two  horses — a  plough  ! 

Earth  savage,  earth  broken,  the  brutes,  the  dawn-man 

there  in  the  sunset, 
And  the  Plough  that  is  twin  to  the  Sword,  that  is 

founder  of  cities  ! 


175 


Contemporary  'Poets 

Slowly  the  darkness  falls,  the  broken  lands  blend  with 

the  savage  ; 
The  brute-tamer  stands  by  the  brutes,  a  head's  breadth 

only  above  them. 

A  head's  breadth?    Ay,  but  therein  is  hell's  depth,  and 

the  height  up  to  heaven, 
And  the  thrones  of  the  gods  and  their  halls,  their 

chariots,  purples  and  splendours. 

In  closing  this  study  we  must  take  a  glance  at 
two  recent  volumes,  one  containing  the  poetry  of 
Mr  Seumas  O'Sullivan  and  the  other  Mr  Cousins' 
latest  work.  .  Mr  O'Sullivan's  book  is  curiously 
interesting,  inasmuch  as  it  unites  certain  contrasted 
qualities  which  are  found  separately  in  the  other 
poets  we  have  been  considering.  Thus,  this  poet 
is  '  literary  '  in  the  sense  of  knowing  and  loving 
good  books,  in  his  familiarity  with  the  old  literature 
of  his  country,  and  in  the  fact  that  those  things 
have  had  a  palpable  influence  upon  him.  Tem- 
peramentally he  is  an  artist,  with  the  artistic 
instinct  to  subordinate  everything  to  the  beauty  of 
his  work.  But  he  is  also  like  the  more  '  popular  ' 
poets  in  his  lyrical  gift  and  in  the  range  and  depth 
of  his  sympathies ;  so  that  his  collected  poems  of 
1912  may  be  regarded  in  some  degree  as  an  epitome 
of  modern  Irish  poetry.  There  you  will  find  work 
which  indicates  that  its  author  might  have  lived 
very  happily  in  a  visionary  world  of  aesthetic  delight. 


An  Irish   Group 

He  might  have  chosen  always  to  sing  about  gods 
and  heroes  and  fair  ladies  with  "  white  hands, 
foam-frail."  But,  just  as  clearly,  you  will  see  that 
he  has  been  aroused  from  dreams.  Vanishing  rem- 
nants of  them  are  perceptible  in  such  a  piece  as 
"  The  Twilight  People  "  ;  and  when  they  are  gone, 
in  that  serene  moment  before  complete  awakening, 
when  the  light  is  growing  and  the  birds  call  and  a 
fresh  air  blows,  you  get  a  piece  like  "  Praise  "  : 

Dear,  they  are  praising  your  beauty, 
The  grass  and  the  sky  : 
The  sky  in  a  silence  of  wonder, 
The  grass  in  a  sigh. 

I  too  would  sing  for  your  praising, 
Dearest,  had  I 

Speech  as  the  whispering  grass, 
Or  the  silent  sky. 

These  have  an  art  for  the  praising 
Beauty  so  high. 

Sweet,  you  are  praised  in  a  silence, 
Sung  in  a  sigh. 

Then  comes  the  awakening,  sudden  and  sharp, 
with  an  impulse  to  spring  out  and  away  from  those 
old  dreams  of  myth  and  romance  :  . 

Bundle  the  gods  away  : 
Richer  than  Danaan  gold, 
The  whisper  of  leaves  in  the  rain, 
Th^ecrets  the  wet  hills  hold. 

M  177 


Contemporary   *Poefs 

A  spiritual  adventure  seems  to  be  implied  in  the 
poem  from  which  this  fragment  is  taken,  similar  to 
that  which  Mr  Cousins  has  recorded  in  "  Straight 
and  Crooked."  It  is  the  call  of  reality  :  the 
impulse  which  is  drawing  the  poetic  spirit  closer 
and  closer  to  life,  and  bidding  it  seek  inspiration 
in  common  human  experience.  Thus  when  we 
find  Mr  O'Sullivan  invoking  the  vision  of  earth 
we  soon  discover  that  '  earth  '  means  something 
more  to  him  than  c  countryside  ' — the  beauty  of 
Nature  and  of  pastoral  existence.  It  comprises 
also  towns  and  crowded  streets  and  busy  people  ; 
and  it  seems  to  mean  ultimately  any  aspect  of  human 
existence  which  has  the  power  to  induce  poetic 
ecstasy.  An  infinitely  wider  range  is  thus  open  to 
the  poet,  and  though  this  little  volume  does  not 
pretend  to  cover  any  large  part  of  it,  there  are  pieces 
which  suggest  its  almost  boundless  possibility.  Let 
us  put  two  of  them  together.  The  first,  "  A  Piper," 
describes  a  little  street  scene  : 

A  Piper  in  the  streets  to-day 

Set  up,  and  tuned,  and  started  to  play, 

And  away,  away,  away  on  the  tide 

Of  his  music  we  started  ;   on  every  side 

Doors  and  windows  were  opened  wide, 

And  men  left  down  their  work  and  came, 

And  women  with  petticoats  coloured  like  flame 

178 


An  Irish   Group 

And  little  bare  feet  that  were  blue  with  cold, 
Went  dancing  back  to  the  age  of  gold, 
And  all  the  world  went  gay,  went  gay, 
For  half  an  hour  in  the  street  to-day. 

That  expresses  the  rapture  which  is  evoked 
directly  by  the  touch  of  the  actual.  The  next 
piece,  a  fragment  from  "  A  Madonna,"  is  equally 
characteristic;  but  its  inspiration  came  through 
another  art,  a  picture  by  Beatrice  El  very : 

Draw  nigh,  O  foolish  worshippers  who  mock 

With  pious  woe  of  sainted  imagery 

The  kingly-human  presence  of  your  God. 

Draw  near,  and  with  new  reverence  gaze  on  her. 

See  you,  these  hands  have  toiled,  these  feet  have  trod 

In  all  a  woman's  business  ;   bend  the  knee. 

For  this  of  very  certainty  is  she 

Ordained  of  heavenly  hierarchies  to  rock 

The  cradle  of  the  infant  carpenter. 

Under  the  diverse  sources  from  which  such  poems 
immediately  spring,  there  flows  the  current  which 
is  fertilizing,  in  greater  or  less  degree,  much  modern 
poetry.  It  has  been  running  strongly  in  England 
for  some  years,  but  hitherto  Irish  poets  have  hardly 
seemed  conscious  of  it,  though  it  was  visibly  moving 
them.  Its  presence  there  was  mainly  felt  in  the 
silence  of  Mr  Yeats,  whose  lovely  romanticism 
fell  dumb  at  its  touch.  But,  significantly,  the 


Contemporary    'Poets 

latest  poetic  utterance  of  Ireland  is  a  cry  of  com- 
plete realization.  It  has  remained  for  Mr  Cousins 
to  hear  the  call  of  his  age  more  consciously  than 
his  compatriots  ;  and  it  is  left  to  him,  in  grace  and 
courage,  to  declare  it : 

.  .  .  From  a   sleep    I    emerge.     I  am  clothed  again 

with  this  woven  vesture  of  laws  ; 
But  I  am  not,  and  never  again  shall  be  the  man  that 

I  was. 

At  the  zenith  of  life  I  am  born  again,  I  begin. 
Know  ye,  I  am  awake,  outside  and  within. 
I  have  heard,  I  have  seen,  I  have  known  ;   I  feel  the 

bite  of  this  shackle  of  place  and  name, 
And  nothing  can  be  the  same. 

I  have  sent  three  shouts  of  freedom  along  the  wind. 
I  have  struck  one   hand  of  kinship  in  the  hands  of 

Gods,  and  one  in  the  hands  of  women  and  men. 
I  am  awake.     I  shall  never  sleep  again. 


1 80 


Rose  Macaulay 

THERE  is  one  small  volume  of  poems  by 
Miss  Macaulay,  called  The  Two  Blind 
Countries.  It  is  curiously  interesting, 
since  it  may  be  regarded  as  the  testament  of 
mysticism  for  the  year  of  its  appearance,  nineteen 
hundred  and  fourteen.  That  is,  indeed,  the  most 
important  fact  about  it  ;  though  no  one  need  begin 
to  fear  that  he  is  to  be  fobbed  off  with  inferior 
poetry  on  that  account.  For  the  truth  is  that  the 
artistic  value  of  this  work  is  almost,  if  not  quite, 
equal  to  the  exceptional  power  of  abstraction  that 
it  evinces.  Poetry  has  really  been  achieved  here, 
extremely  individual  in  manner  and  in  matter,  and 
of  a  high  order  of  beauty. 

One  is  compelled,  however,  though  one  may  a 
little  regret  the  compulsion,  to  start  from  the  fact 
of  the  poet's  mystical  tendency.  Not  that  she 
would  mind,  presumably ;  the  title  of  her  book  is 
an  avowal,  clear  enough  at  a  second  glance,  of  its 
point  of  view.  But  the  reader  has  an  instinct,  in 
which  the  mere  interpreter  but  follows  him,  to 
accept  a  poem  first  as  art  rather  than  thought  ; 
and  if  he  examine  it  at  all,  to  begin  with  what 
may  be  called  its  concrete  beauty.  I  will  not 
say  that  the  order  is  reversed  in  the  case  of  Miss 

181 


Contemporary   *Poets 

Macaulay's  poetry,  since  that  would  be  to  accuse 
her  of  an  artistic  crime  of  which  she  is  emphatically 
not  guilty.  But  it  is  significant  that  the  greater 
number  of  pieces  in  this  book  impress  the  mind 
with  the  idea  they  convey,  simultaneously  with  the 
sounds  in  which  it  is  expressed.  And  as  the  idea 
is  generally  adventurous,  and  sometimes  fantastic, 
it  is  that  which  arrests  the  reader  and  on  which  he 
lingers,  at  any  rate  long  enough  to  discover  its 
originality. 

But  though  the  mystical  element  of  the  work  is 
suggested  in  its  very  title,  one  discovers  almost  as 
early  that  it  is  mysticism  of  a  new  kind.  It  belongs 
inalienably  to  this  poet  and  is  unmistakably  of  this 
age.  The  world  of  matter,  this  jolly  place  of  light 
and  air  and  colour  and  human  faces,  is  vividly 
apprehended ;  but  it  is  seen  by  the  poet  to  be  ringed 
round  by  another  realm  which,  though  unsub- 
stantial, is  no  less  real.  Indeed,  so  strong  is  her 
consciousness  of  that  other  realm,  and  its  presence 
so  insistently  felt,  that  sometimes  she  is  not  sure 
to  which  of  the  two  she  really  belongs.  In  the 
first  poem  of  the  book,  using  the  fictive  '  he  '  as 
its  subject,  she  indicates  her  attitude  to  that  region 
beyond  sense.  In  the  physical  world,  this  '  blind 
land  '  of  '  shadows  and  droll  shapes,'  the  soul  is 
an  alien  wanderer.  Constantly  it  hears  a  '  clamorous 
182 


Rose  Macaulay 

whisper  '  from  the  other  side  of  the  door  of  sense, 

coming  from  the 

.  .  .  muffled  speech 
Of  a  world  of  folk. 

But  no  cry  can  reach  those  others  :  no  clear  sight 
can  be  had  of  them,  and  no  intelligible  word  of 
theirs  can  come  back. 

Only  through  a  crack  in  the  door's  blind  face 

He  would  reach  a  thieving  hand, 
To  draw  some  clue  to  his  own  strange  place 
From  the  other  land. 

But  his  closed  hand  came  back  emptily, 

As  a  dream  drops  from  him  who  wakes  ; 
And  naught  might  he  know  but  how  a  muffled  sea 
In  whispers  breaks. 
.  .  .  •  • 

On  either  side  of  a  gray  barrier 
The  two  blind  countries  lie  ; 
But  he  knew  not  which  held  him  prisoner, 
Nor  yet  know  I. 

This  poem  may  be  said  to  state  the  theme  of 
the  whole  book.  It  would  appear,  however,  that 
in  the  difficult  feat  of  giving  form  to  thought  so 
intangible,  the  poet  has  attained  here  a  detachment 
which  is  almost  cold.  But  it  would  be  unfair  to 
judge  her  manner  of  expression  from  one  poem  ; 
and  it  happens  that  there  is  another  piece,  built 

183 


Contemporary  *Poets 

upon  a  similar  theme,  which  is  much  more  char- 
acteristic. It  is  called  "  Foregrounds,"  and  here 
again  the  two  countries  are  conceived  as  bordering 
upon  each  other,  inter- penetrating,  but  sharply 
contrasted  as  night  from  day.  The  contrast  favours 
a  more  vivid  setting,  and  the  subjective  treatment, 
admitting  deeper  emotion,  infuses  a  warmth  that 
"  The  Alien  "  lacked.  Moreover,  the  psychic  region 
is  here  called  simply  the  dream-country  ;  and, 
presented  in  the  delicate  suggestion  of  a  moonlit 
night,  it  hints  only  at  the  lure  of  the  mystery,  and 
nothing  of  its  terror.  Throughout  the  poem,  too, 
runs  exuberant  joy  in  common  earthly  things,  in 
the  beauty  of  nature  and  in  human  feeling  ;  and 
this  is  followed,  in  the  closing  lines  of  each  stanza, 
by  an  afterthought  and  a  touch  of  melancholy  : 
reflection  coming,  in  the  most  natural  way,  close 
upon  the  heels  of  emotion.  Thus  the  first  lines 
revel  in  the  glory  of  spring  ;  and  then,  almost 
audibly,  the  tone  drops  to  the  lower  level  of  one 
who  perceives  that  glory  as  the  veil  of  something 
beyond  it. 

The  pleasant  ditch  is  a  milky  way, 

So  alight  with  stars  it  is, 
And  over  it  breaks,  like  pale  sea-spray, 
The  laughing  cataract  of  the  may 

In  laminous  harmonies. 
184 


Rose  Macaulay 

(Cloak  with  a  flower-wrought  veil 
The  face  of  the  dream-country. 
The  fields  of  the  moon  are  kind,  are  pale, 
And  quiet  is  she.) 

Thus,  too,  in  the  third  stanza,  the  recurrent 
idea  of  an  alien  spirit  is  caught  into  imagery  which 
glows  with  light  and  colour  :  imagery  so  simple 
and  sensuous  as  almost  to  mock  abstraction  and 
quite  to  disguise  it  ;  but  bearing  at  its  heart  the 
essence  of  a  philosophy.  Again  the  soul  is  imagined 
as  standing  at  the  barrier  of  the  two  countries, 
when  reality  has  melted  to  an  apparition  and  the 
sense  of  that  other  realm  has  grown  acute.  Bereft 
of  the  comfortable  earth,  but  powerless  still  to 
enter  the  dream-country  :  standing  lonely  and 
fearful  at  the  cold  verge  of  the  mystic  region,  the 
spirit  will  seek  to  draw  about  it  the  garment  of 
appearance  : 

I  will  weave,  of  the  clear  clean  shapes  of  things, 

A  curtain  to  shelter  me  j 
I  will  paint  it  with  kingcups  and  sunrisings, 
And  glints  of  blue  for  the  swallow's  wings, 
And  green  for  the  apple-tree. 

(Oh,  a  whisper  has  pierced  the  veil 
Out  of  the  dream-country, 
As  a  wind  moans  in  the  straining  sail 
Of  a  ship  lost  at  sea.) 

In  reading  this  poem,  and  in  others  too,  one  is 


Contemporary   TPoets 

struck  by  the  hold  which  the  real  world  has  upon 
our  poet.  It  is  a  surprising  fact  in  one  of  so  specu- 
lative a  turn,  and  is  the  clearest  sign  by  which  we 
recognize  her  work  as  of  our  time  and  no  other. 
Her  thought  may  be  projected  very  far,  but  her 
feet  are  generally  upon  solid  ground.  Perhaps  I 
ought  rather  to  say  that  they  are  always  there  ; 
for  it  is  more  than  probable  that  bed-rock  may 
exist  in  two  or  three  poems  where  I  have  been 
unable  to  get  down  to  it.  It  is  in  any  case  safe  to 
say  that  a  sense  of  reality — shown  in  human  sym- 
pathy and  tenderness  for  lowly  creatures,  in  love 
of  nature  and  perception  of  beauty,  in  truth  to 
fact,  in  a  touch  of  shrewd  insight  and  a  sense  of 
humour  bred  of  the  habit  of  detachment — is  very 
strong.  I  do  not  suggest  that  these  qualities  are 
everywhere  apparent.  By  their  nature  they  are 
such  as  could  not  often  enter  into  the  framework 
of  poems  so  subtly  wrought.  But  they  are  woven 
into  the  texture  of  the  poet's  mentality,  and  have 
even  directed  its  method.  So  that,  remote  as  may 
be  the  idea  upon  which  she  is  working,  it  is  generally 
brought  within  the  range  of  sight  ;  and,  intangible 
though  it  may  seem,  it  is  given  definite  and  charming 
shape.  And  if  there  were  not  one  obvious  proof 
of  this  steady  anchorage,  we  might  have  happy 
assurance  of  it  in  the  clarity  and  precision  of  her 
186 


Rose  Macaulay 

thought.  But  fortunately  there  is  obvious  proof. 
There  is,  for  instance,  this  delicious  passage  in  the 
poem  from  which  I  have  just  quoted,  surely  proving 
a  kinship  with  our  own  c  blind  country  '  as  close  as 
with  that  other  and  something  dearer  : 

The  jolly  donkeys  that  love  me  well 

Nuzzle  with  thistly  lips  ; 
The  harebell  is  song  made  visible, 
The  dandelion's  lamp  a  miracle, 

When  the  day's  lamp  dips  and  dips. 

There  are,  too,  a  sonnet  called  "  Cards  "  and  the 
very  beautiful  longer  poem,  "  Summons,"  in  which 
the  glow  of  human  love  makes  of  the  supernatural 
a  mere  shadow.  In  "  Cards  "  the  scene  is  a  '  dim 
lily-illumined  garden,'  and  four  people  are  playing 
there  by  candle  light.  But  out  of  the  darkness 
which  rings  the  circle  of  flickering  light  sinister 
things  creep,  menacing  the  frail  life  of  one  of  the 
players. 

But,  like  swords  clashing,  my  love  on  their  hate 
Struck  sharp,    and   drove,  and  pushed.  .  .   .   Grimly 

round  you 

Fought  we  that  fight,  they  pressing  passionate 
Into  the  lit  circle  which  called  and  drew 
Shadows  and  moths  of  night.  ...  I  held  the  gate. 
You  said,  "  Our  game,"  more  truly  than  you  knew. 

Again  we  perceive  this    sense  of  reality  in  the 

187 


Contemporary    'Poets 

humour  of  a  poem  like  "  St  Mark's  Day "  or 
"  Three."  It  is  a  quality  hearty  and  cheery  in  the 
way  of  one  who  knows  all  the  facts,  but  has  reckoned 
with  them  and  can  afford  to  laugh.  It  has  a  depth 
of  tone  unexpected  in  an  artist  whose  natural 
impulse  seems  to  be  towards  delicate  line  and 
neutral  tint  ;  and  there  is  a  tang  of  salt  in  it  which 
one  suspects  of  having  been  added  of  intent — as  a 
quite  superfluous  preservative  against  sentimentality. 
"  St  Mark's  Day "  is  very  illuminating  in  this 
respect,  and  in  the  bracing  sanity  under  which 
mere  superstition  wilts.  The  village  girl,  teased 
by  neighbours  into  believing  that  her  spectre  was 
seen  the  night  before  and  that  therefore  she  must 
die  within  the  year,  is  a  genuine  bit  of  rustic 
humanity.  No  portrait  of  her  is  given ;  but  in  two 
or  three  strong  touches  she  stands  before  us, 
plump,  rosy  and  rather  stupid  ;  hale  enough  to 
live  her  fourscore  years,  but  sobbing  in  foolish 
fright  as  her  sturdy  arms  peg  the  wet  linen  upon 
the  line. 

I  laughed  at  her  over  the  sticky  larch  fence, 
And  said,  "  Who's  down-hearted,  Dolly  ?  " 

And  Dolly  sobbed  at  me,  "  They  saw  you,  too  !  " 

(And  so  the  liars  said  they  had, 
Though  Pve  not  wasted  paper  nor  rhymes  telling  you), 

And,  "  Well,"  said  I,  "  Pm  not  sad." 

188 


Rose  Macaulay 

"  But  since  you  and  me  must  die  within  the  year, 

What  if  we  went  together 
To  make  cowslip  balls  in  the  fields,  and  hear 

The  blackbirds  whistling  to  the  weather  ?  " 

So  in  the  water-fields  till  blue  mists  rose 

We  loitered,  Dolly  and  I, 

And  pulled  wet  kingcups  where  the  cold  brook 
goes, 

And  when  we've  done  living,  we'll  die. 

The  realism  of  that  goes  deeper  than  its  tech- 
nique, and  is  a  notable  weapon  in  the  hands  of 
such  an  idealist.  But  in  "  Three,"  another  humor- 
ous poem,  something  more  surprising  has  been 
accomplished.  "  St  Mark's  Day  "  is  a  bit  of  pure 
comedy,  and  might  have  been  written  by  a  poet 
for  whom  one  '  blind  country '  was  the  beginning 
and  end  of  all  experience.  That  is  to  say,  it  is 
interesting  as  proof  of  a  healthy  grasp  on  the  real 
world.  But  in  "  Three,"  though  reality  is  no 
less  strong,  with  art  matching  it  in  bold  and  vigor- 
ous strokes,  there  is  achieved  an  uncanny  sense 
of  the  supernatural.  Thus,  despite  certain  comic 
touches,  and  a  sunny  noonday  scene,  the  con- 
sciousness grows  first  of  a  ghostly  presence  (in 
the  accepted  sense  of  the  spirit  of  one  dead)  ; 
and  then  of  an  obscure  but  disturbing  awareness 
of  a  hidden  life  close  at  hand  which  most  people 

180 


Contemporary    'Poets 

have  experienced  at  some  time  or  other.  The 
poet  has  sketched  these  two  of  her  "  Three " 
with  an  equally  light  hand,  smiling  amusedly, 
as  it  were,  at  her  own  fantasy  ;  but  she  has  differ- 
entiated them  quite  clearly.  For  the  true  ghost, 
conjured  out  of  the  stuff  of  memory,  association 
and  the  influence  of  locality,  is  a  creature  of  pure 
imagination.  He  is  not  so  much  described  as 
suggested,  and  only  dimly  felt.  There  is  a  stanza 
devoted  to  the  Cambridge  landscape  in  the  hot 
noon,  and  then — 

In  the  long  grass  and  tall  nettles 

I  lay  abed, 
With  hawthorn  and  bryony 

Tangled  o'erhead. 
And  I  was  alone  with  Hobson, 

Two  centuries  dead. 


Hidden  by  sprawling  brambles 

The  Nine  Waters  were  ; 
From  a  chalky  bed  they  bubbled  up, 

Clean,  green,  and  fair. 
And  I  was  alone  with  Hobson, 

Whose  ghost  walks  there. 

But  it  seems  that  the  poet  is  not  alone  with  the 
pleasant  ghost  of  the  old  university  carrier.  There 
190 


Rose   Macaulay 

is  a  third  presence  near,  hidden  and  silent,  but 
malign  ;  and  the  stanzas  in  which  this  secret 
presence  grows  to  realization  are  remarkably  done. 
They  illustrate  this  poet's  ability  to  create  illusion 
out  of  mere  scraps  of  material,  and  those  of  a 
commonplace  kind  ;  and  they  rely  for  their  verbal 
effect  upon  the  homeliest  words.  Yet  the  im- 
pression of  an  intangible  something  is  so  strong, 
that  when  the  very  real  head  of  the  tramp 
appears  the  contrast  provokes  a  sudden  laugh  at 
its  absurdity. 

And  something  yawned,  and  from  the 
grass 

A  head  upreared  ; 
And  I  was  not  alone  with  Hobson, 

For  at  me  leered 
A  great,  gaunt,  greasy  tramp 

With  a  golden  beard. 

He  had  a  beard  like  a  dandelion. 

And  I  had  none  ; 
He  had  tea  in  a  beer-bottle, 

Warm  with  the  sun  ; 
He  had  pie  in  a  paper  bag, 

Not  yet  begun. 

The  vigorous  handling  of  that  passage,  and  its 
comical   actuality,    make   an   excellent   foil   to   the 

191 


Contemporary    'Poets 

subtler  method  of  presenting  the  two  spirits, 
living  and  dead.  And  the  poem  as  a  whole  may 
be  said  to  reflect  the  two  chief  elements  in  this 
work.  It  is  true  that  in  a  more  characteristic 
piece  the  ideal  will  prevail  over  the  real.  And 
consequently,  imagination  will  there  be  found 
to  weave  finer  strands,  while  thought  goes  much 
further  afield.  Thus,  in  "  Crying  for  the  Moon," 
and  in  "  The  Thief,"  one  may  follow  the  idea 
very  far  ;  and  in  both  poems  we  move  in  the  pale 
light  and  dim  shadow  where  mystery  is  evoked  at 
a  hint.  Never,  I  think,  was  there  such  an  eerie 
dawn  as  that  in  "  The  Thief  "  ;  yet  never  was 
or  chard- joy  more  keenly  realized — 

He  stood  at  the  world's  secret  heart 

In  the  haze-wrapt  mystery ; 
And  fat  pears,  mellow  on  the  lip, 

He  supped  like  a  honey-bee  j 
But  the  apples  he  crunched  with  sharp 
white  teeth 

Were  pungent,  like  the  sea. 

Probably  it  is  in  work  like  this,  where  both  blind 
countries  find  expression,  that  Miss  Macaulay  is 
most  successful.  But  when  she  gives  imagination 
licence  to  wander  alone  in  the  ideal  region,  it 
occasionally  seems  to  go  out  of  sight  and  sound 
192 


Rose  Macaulay 

of  the  good  earth.  That  happens  in  "  Completion," 
a  poem  which  is  frankly  mystical  in  theme,  sym- 
bolism and  terminology.  There  is  not  a  touch  of 
reality  in  it ;  and  neither  its  fine  strange  music, 
nor  glowing  colour,  nor  certain  perfect  phrases, 
nor  the  language,  at  once  rich  and  tender  and 
strong,  can  make  it  more  than  the  opalescent 
wraith  of  a  poem.  But  perhaps  that  is  just  what 
the  author  intended  it  to  be  ! 

In  any  case  "  Completion  "  does  correspond  to, 
and  daintily  express,  the  mystical  strain  which  is 
dominant  in  this  work.  It  is,  however,  the  extreme 
example  of  it.  It  stands  at  the  opposite  pole  from 
"  St  Mark's  Day,"  and  antithetical  to  that,  it  might 
have  been  written  by  a  mystic  for  whom  the  material 
world  was  virtually  nothing.  Moreover,  it  might 
belong  to  almost  any  time,  or  not  to  time  at  all ; 
whereas  the  mysticism  of  the  book  as  a  whole  is 
peculiarly  that  of  its  own  author  and  its  own  day. 
It  is  individual — a  thing  of  this  poet's  personality 
and  no  other — in  the  evidence  of  a  finely  sensitive 
spirit,  of  an  acute  gift  of  vision,  imaginative  power 
which  ranges  far  and  a  fine  capacity  for  abstract 
thought.  But  all  these  qualities  are  sweetly  con- 
trolled by  a  humane  temper  that  has  been  nurtured 
on  realities. 

Hence  comes  a  duality  in  which  it  is,  perhaps, 

N  193 


Contemporary  'Poets 

not  too  fanciful  to  see  a  feature  of  contemporary 
thought — intensely  interested  in  the  region  of  ideas, 
but  frankly  claiming  the  material  world  as  the 
basis  and  starting-point  of  all  its  speculation.  One 
might  put  it  colloquially  (though  without  the  im- 
plied reproach)  as  making  the  best  of  both  worlds  : 
humanity  recognizing  an  honourable  kinship  with 
matter,  but  reaching  out  continually  after  the  larger 
existence  which  it  confidently  believes  to  be  latent 
in  the  physical  world  itself. 

A  voice  may  be  raised  to  protest  that  that  is  too 
vaguely  generalized  ;  and  if  so,  the  protestant  may 
turn  for  more  precise  evidence  to  such  poems  as 
"  Trinity  Sunday  "  and  "  The  Devourers."  There  he 
will  perceive,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  the  store 
of  modern  knowledge — of  actual  data — which  has 
been  assimilated  to  the  mystical  element  here.  Let 
him  consider,  for  example,  the  first  two  stanzas  of 
"  The  Devourers,"  and  other  similar  passages  : 

Cambridge  town  is  a  beleaguered  city  ; 

For  south  and  north,  like  a  sea, 
There  beat  on  its  gates,  without  haste  or  pity, 

The  downs  and  the  fen  country. 

Cambridge  towers,  so  old,  so  wise, 

They  were  builded  but  yesterday, 
Watched  by  sleepy  gray  secret  eyes 

That  smiled  as  at  children's  play. 

i94 


Rose  Macaulay 

It  is  clear  that  the  knowledge  really  has  been 
assimilated — it  is  not  a  fragmentary  or  external 
thing.  It  is  absorbed  into  the  essence  of  the  work 
and  will  not  be  found  to  mar  its  poetic  values. 
But  by  a  hint,  a  word,  a  turn  of  expression  or  a 
mental  gesture,  one  can  see  that  learning  both 
scientific  and  humane  (a  significant  union)  has  gone 
into  the  poetic  crucible.  There  are  signs  which 
point  to  a  whole  system  of  philosophy  :  there  is 
an  historical  sense,  imaginatively  handling  the  data 
of  cosmic  history  ;  and  there  are  traces  which  lead 
down  to  a  basis  in  geology  and  anthropology.  Yet 
these  elements  are,  as  I  said,  perfectly  fused  :  it 
would  be  difficult  to  disengage  them.  And  inimical 
as  they  may  seem  to  the  very  nature  of  mysticism, 
they  are  constrained  by  this  poet  to  contribute  to 
her  vision  of  a  world  beyond  sense. 

From  this  point  of  view  "Trinity  Sunday  "  is  the 
most  important  poem  in  the  book.  It  records  an 
experience  which  the  mystic  of  another  age  would 
have  called  a  revelation,  and  which  he  would  have 
apprehended  through  the  medium  of  religious 
emotion.  But  this  poet  attains  to  her  ultimate 
vision  through  the  phenomena  of  the  real  world, 
apprehended  in  terms  of  the  ideal.  The  warm 
breath  of  Spring,  rich  with  scent  and  sound  of  the 
teeming  earth,  stirs  it  to  awakening.  But  though 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

she  is  walking  in  familiar  Cambridge  with,  charac- 
teristically, the  scene  and  time  exactly  placed  : 
though  friendly  faces  pass  and  cordial  voices  give  a 
greeting,  all  that  suddenly  shrivels  at  the  touch  of 
the  wild  earth  spirit.  Space  and  time  curl  away  in 
fold  after  fold  ;  and  with  them  pass  successive  forms 
of  strange  life  immensely  remote.  But  even  while 
reality  thus  terribly  unfolds,  it  is  perceived  to  be 
the  stuff  of  the  world's  live  brain  ;  to  have  exist- 
ence only  in  idea. 

And  the  fens  were  not.     (For  fens  are  dreams 

Dreamt  by  a  race  long  dead  ; 
And  the  earth  is  naught,  and  the  sun  but  seems  : 

And  so  those  who  know  have  said.) 

Thus  the  facts  of  science  have  gone  to  the  making 
of  this  poem,  as  well  as  the  theories  of  an  idealist 
philosophy.  It  is  through  them  both  that  imagina- 
tion takes  the  forward  leap.  But  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other  can  avail  to  utter  the  revelation  ;  and 
even  the  poet's  remarkable  gift  of  expression  can  only 
suffice  to  suggest  the  awfulness  of  it. 

So  veil  beyond  veil  illimitably  lifted  : 

And  I  saw  the  world's  naked  face, 
Before,  reeling  and  baffled  and  blind,  I  drifted 

Back  within  the  bounds  of  space. 


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John  Masefield 

THERE  is  one  sense  at  least  in  which  Mr 
Masefield  is  the  most  important  figure 
amongst  contemporary  poets.  For  he 
has  won  the  popular  ear,  he  has  cast  the  poetic  spell 
further  than  any  of  his  compeers,  and  it  has  been 
given  to  him  to  lure  the  multitudinous  reader  of 
magazines — that  wary  host  which  is  usually  stam- 
peded by  the  sight  of  a  page  of  verse. 

Now  I  know  that  there  are  cultured  persons  to 
whom  this  fact  of  uncritical  appreciation  is  an 
offence,  and  to  them  a  writer  bent  upon  purely 
scientific  criticism  would  be  compelled  to  yield 
certain  points.  But  they  would  be  mainly  on 
finicking  questions,  as  an  occasional  lapse  from 
fineness  in  thought  or  form,  an  incidental  banality 
of  word  or  phrase  ;  or  a  lack  of  delicate  effects  of 
rhyme  and  metre.  And  the  whole  business  would 
amount  in  the  end  to  little  more  than  a  petulant 
complaint  ;  an  impertinent  grumble  that  Mr 
Masefield  happens  to  be  himself  and  not,  let  us  say, 
Mr  Robert  Bridges  ;  that  his  individual  genius  has 
carved  its  own  channels  and  that,  in  effect,  the  music 
of  the  sea  or  the  mountain  torrent  does  not  happen  to 
be  the  same  thing  as  the  plash  of  a  fountain  in  a  valley. 

But  having  no  quarrel  with  this  offending  popu- 

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Contemporary  'Poets 

larity :  rejoicing  in  it  rather,  and  the  new  army  of 
poetry-readers  which  it  has  created ;  and  believing 
it  to  be  an  authentic  sign  of  the  poetic  spirit  of  our 
day,  one  is  tempted  to  seek  for  the  cause  of  it. 
Luckily,  there  is  a  poem  called  "  Biography  "  which 
gives  a  clue  and  something  more.  It  is  a  paean  of 
zest  for  life,  of  the  intense  joy  in  actual  living  which 
seems  to  be  the  dynamic  of  Mr  Masefield's  genius. 
There  is,  most  conspicuous  and  significant,  delight 
in  beauty ;  a  swift,  keen,  accurate  response  of  sense 
to  the  external  world,  to  sea  and  [sky  and  hill,  to 
field  and  flower.  But  there  is  fierce  delight,  too,  in 
toil  and  danger,  in  strenuous  action,  in  desperate 
struggle  with  wind  and  wave,  in  the  supreme  effort 
of  physical  power,  in  health  and  strength  and  skill 
and  freedom  and  jollity  ;  and  above  all,  first,  last 
and  always,  in  ships.  But  there  is  delight  no  less 
in  communion  with  humanity,  in  comradeship,  in 
happy  memories  of  kindred,  in  still  happier  mental 
kinships  and  intellectual  affinities,  in  books,  in 
'  glittering  moments  '  of  spiritual  perception,  in 
the  brooding  sense  of  man's  long  history. 

These  are  the  '  golden  instants  and  bright  days  ' 
which  correctly  spell  his  life,  as  this  poet  is  careful 
to  emphasize  ;  and  we  perceive  that  the  rapture 
which  they  inspire  in  him,  the  ardour  with  which 
he  takes  this  sea  of  life,  is  of  the  essence  of  his  poetry. 


John  Masefield 

It  is  seen  most  clearly  in  the  lyrics  ;  and  that  is 
natural,  since  these  are  amongst  his  early  work,  and 
youth  is  the  heyday  of  joy.  It  is  found  in  nearly 
all  of  them,  of  course  in  varying  degree,  colouring 
substance  and  shaping  form,  evoking  often  a  strong 
rhythm  like  a  hearty  voice  that  sings  as  it  goes. 

So  hey  for  the  road,  the  west  road,  by  mill  and  forge 

and  fold, 
Scent  of  the  fern  and  song  of  the  lark  by  brook,  and 

field,  and  wold  ; 

Or  again,  in  "  Tewkesbury  Road," 

O,  to  feel  the  beat  of  the  rain,  and  the  homely  smell 

of  the  earth, 
Is  a  tune  for  the  blood    to  jig  to,  a  joy  past  power 

of  words  ; 
And    the    blessed    green    comely    meadows    are     all 

a-ripple  with  mirth 
At  the  noise  of  the   lambs  at  play  and  the  dear  wild 

cry  of  the  birds. 

And  it  rings  in  many  songs  of  the  sea,  telling  of  its 
beauty  or  terror,  its  magic  and  mystery  and  hardship, 
its  stately  ships  and  tough  sailormen  and  strange 
harbourages,  its  breath  of  romance  sharply  tingling 
with  reality,  its  lure  from  which  there  is  no  escape — 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the 

running  tide 
Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be  denied  ; 

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Contemporary   'Poets 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white  clouds 

flying, 

And  the  flung  spray  and  the   blown   spume,  and  the 
sea-gulls  crying. 

Under  the  wistfulness  of  that  throbs  the  same  zest 

as  that  which  finds  expression  in  "  Laugh  and  be 

Merry  "  ;  but  the  mood  has  become  more  buoyant — 

Laugh  and  be  merry,  remember,  better  the  world  with 

a  song, 

Better  the  world  with  a  blow  in  the  teeth  of  a  wrong. 
Laugh,  for  the  time  is  brief,  a  thread  the  length  of 

a  span. 

Laugh    and    be  proud    to    belong  to  the    old   proud 
pageant  of  man. 

Sometimes  a  minor  key  is  struck,  as  in  "  Prayer  ;  " 
but  even  here  the  joy  is  present,  revealing  itself 
in  sharp  regret  for  the  beloved  things  of  earth.  It 
manifests  itself  in  many  ways,  subtler  or  more 
obvious  ;  but  mainly  I  think  in  a  questing,  venturous 
spirit  which  must  always  be  daring  and  seeking 
something  beyond.  Whether  in  the  material  world 
or  the  spiritual,  it  is  always  the  same — whether 
it  be  sea-longing,  or  hunger  for  the  City  of  God,  or 
a  vague  faring  to  an  unknown  bourne,  or  the  eternal 
quest  for  beauty.  The  poem  called  "  The  Seekers  " 
is  beautifully  apt  in  this  regard.  Simply,  clearly, 
directly,  it  expresses  the  alpha  and  omega  of  this 
genius  :  the  zest  which  is  its  driving  force  and  the 
200 


John  Masefield 

aspiration,  the  tireless  and  ceaseless  pursuit  of  an 

ideal,  which  is  its  objective. 

Not  for  us  are  content,  and  quiet,  and  peace  of  mind, 
For  we  go  seeking  a  city  that  we  shall  never  find. 

There  is  no  solace  on  earth  for  us — for  such  as  we — 
Who  search  for  a  hidden  city  that  we  shall  never  see. 

There  is  the  spirit  of  adventure,  the  eternal 
allure  of  romance,  as  old  and  as  potent  as  poetry 
itself.  And  surely  nothing  is  more  engaging, 
nothing  quicker  and  stronger  and  more  universal 
in  its  appeal,  than  zest  for  life  finding  expression 
in  this  way.  In  these  early  lyrics  its  spontaneous 
and  simple  utterance  is  very  winning  ;  but  in  the 
later  narrative  poems  it  is  none  the  less  present 
because,  having  grown  a  little  older,  it  is  a  little 
more  complex  and  not  so  obvious  in  its  mani- 
festation. Under  these  longer  poems  too  runs  the 
stream  of  joy,  somewhat  quieter  now,  perhaps, 
subdued  by  contemplation,  brought  to  the  test  of 
actuality,  shaping  a  different  form  through  the 
conflict  of  human  will,  but  still  deep  and  strong, 
and,  as  in  the  earlier  work,  expressing  its  ultimate 
meaning  through  the  spirit  of  high  adventure. 

Thus  "  The  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street,"  which  was 
the  first  written  of  these  four  narrative  poems,  is 
the  adventure  of  motherhood.  "  Oh  !  "  will  pro- 
test some  member  of  the  dainty  legion  which  lives 

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Contemporary   Poets 

in  terror  of  appearances,  "  it  is  a  story  of  lust  and 
murder  !  "  But  no  ;  fundamentally,  triumphantly, 
it  is  a  tale  of  mother-love,  venturing  all  for  the 
child.  Only  superficially  is  it  a  tragedy  of  un- 
governed  desire  and  rage,  made  out  of  the  incidence 
of  character  which  we  call  destiny.  The  mother's 
spirit  prevails  over  all  that,  and  remains  unconquer- 
able. In  "  Daffodil  Fields  "  there  is  the  adventure 
of  romantic  passion.  The  "  Everlasting  Mercy," 
so  obviously  as  hardly  to  need  the  comment,  is  the 
high  adventure  of  the  soul ;  and  "  Dauber,"  less 
clearly  perhaps,  though  quite  as  certainly,  is  that 
too.  But  while  in  the  first  of  these  two  poems 
the  spirit's  spark  is  struck  into  '  absolute  human 
clay,'  in  "  Dauber  "  it  is  burning  already  in  the 
brain  of  an  artist.  Saul  Kane,  when  his  soul  comes 
to  birth  at  the  touch  of  religion,  puts  off  bestiality 
and  rises  to  a  joyful  perception  of  the  meaning  of  life. 
The  Dauber,  with  that  precious  knowledge  already 
shining  within  him,  but  twinned  with  another,  the 
supreme  and  immortal  glory  of  art,  with  his  last 
breath  cries  holy  defiance  to  the  elements  that 
snatch  his  life — It  will  go  on. 

But  there  is  another  reason  for  the  popularity  of 
this  poet's  work  ;  and  it  also  is  deducible  from  the 
poem  called  "  Biography."  I  mean  the  complete 
and  robust  humanity  which  is  evinced  there.  One 
202 


John  Masefield 

sees,  of  course,  that  this  has  a  close  relation  with  the 
zest  that  we  have  already  noted  ;  that  it  is  indeed 
the  root  of  that  fine  flower.  But  the  balance  of 
thjs  personality — with  power  of  action  and  of 
thought  about  equally  poised,  with  the  mystic  and 
the  humanitarian  meeting  half-way,  with  the  ideal 
and  the  real  twining  and  intertwining  constantly, 
with  sensuous  and  spiritual  perception  almost 
matched — determines  the  quality  by  which  Mr 
Masefield's  poems  make  so  wide  and  direct  an 
appeal.  If  reflectiveness  were  predominant,  if  the 
subjective  element  outran  the  keen  dramatic  sense, 
if  the  ideal  were  capable  of  easy  victory  over  the 
material  (it  does  conquer,  but  of  that  later),  this 
would  be  poetry  of  a  very  different  type.  Whether 
it  would  be  of  a  finer  type  it  is  idle  to  speculate,  the 
point  for  the  moment  being  that  it  would  not  com- 
mand so-large  an  audience.  By  just  so  far  as  specializa- 
tion operated,  the  range  would  be  made  narrower. 
It  is  this  sense  of  humanity  which  wins  ;  not  only 
explicit,  as,  for  example,  in  the  deliberate  choice 
of  subject  avowed  once  for  all  in  the  early  poem 
called  "  Consecration  " — 

The  men  of    the  tattered  battalion  which  fights  till 

it  dies, 
Dazed  with  the  dust  of  the  battle,  the  din  and  the  cries, 


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Contemporary  'Poets 

The    sailor,  the   stoker  of    steamers,  the    man   with 

the  clout, 
The  chantyman  bent  at   the  halliards  putting  a  tune 

to  the  shout, 

• 

Of  the  maimed,    of   the  halt   and   the  blind  in  the 

rain  and  the  cold — 
Of  these  shall  my  songs  be  fashioned,  my  tales  be  told. 

There  the  poet  is  responding  consciously  to  the 
time-spirit  :  the  awakening  social  sense  which, 
moving  pitifully  amongst  bitter  and  ugly  experience, 
was  to  evoke  the  outer  realism  of  his  art.  That,  of 
course,  being  passionately  sincere,  is  a  powerful  in- 
fluence. But  stronger  still  is  the  unconscious  force 
of  personality,  this  completeness  of  nature  which  in 
"  Biography  "  is  seen  as  a  rare  union  of  powers  that 
are  nevertheless  the  common  heritage  of  humanity ; 
and  which  is  implicit  everywhere  in  his  work, 
imbuing  it  with  the  compelling  attraction  of  large 
human  sympathy. 

Out  of  this  arise  the  curiously  contrasted  elements 
of  Mr  Masefield's  poetry.  For,  as  in  life  itself,  and 
particularly  in  life  that  is  full  and  sound,  there  is 
here  a  perpetual  conflict  between  opposing  forces. 
It  is,  perhaps,  the  most  prominent  characteristic  of 
this  work.  It  pervades  it  throughout,  belongs  to 
its  very  essence  and  has  moulded  its  form.  It  is,  of 
204 


John  Masefield 

course,  most  readily  apparent  in  the  poet's  art. 
Here  the  battling  forces  of  his  genius,  transferred  to 
the  creatures  whom  he  has  created,  have  made  these 
narrative  poems  largely  dramatic  in  form.  Here, 
too,  we  come  upon  a  clash  of  realism  with  romance 
and  idyllic  sweetness.  That  bald  external  realism 
has  found  much  disfavour  with  those  who  do  not 
or  will  not  see  its  relation  to  the  underlying  reality. 
And  one  observes  that  the  critic  who  professes  most 
to  dislike  it  hastens  to  quote  the  gaudiest  example, 
practically  ignoring  the  many  serene  and  gracious 
passages. 

But,  putting  aside  the  prejudice  which  has  been 
fostered  by  a  conventional  poetic  language,  this 
realistic  method  does  seem  to  conflict  with  certain 
other  characteristics  of  the  work — with  the  essential 
romance  of  the  spirit  of  adventure,  for  instance. 
There  does  at  first  glance  appear  to  be  a  disturbing 
lack  of  unity  between  that  ardent,  wistful  and  elusive 
spirit,  and  the  grim  actuality  here,  of  incident  and 
diction  ;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  between  the  raw 
material  of  this  verse  and  its  elaborate  metrical  form, 
or  its  frequent  passages  of  rare  and  delicate  beauty. 
But  is  it  more  than  an  appearance  ?  I  think  not. 
I  believe  that  the  incongruity  exists  only  in  a  canon 
of  poetical  taste  which  is  false  to  the  extent  that  it 
is  based  too  narrowly.  That  canon  has  appro- 

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Contemporary   ^Poets 

priated  romance  to  a  certain  order  of  themes  and, 
almost  as  exclusively,  to  a  certain  manner  of  expres- 
sion. Most  of  our  contemporary  poets  have  cheer- 
fully repudiated  the  convention  so  far  as  it  governed 
language  ;  building  up,  each  for  himself,  a  fresh, 
rich,  expressive  idiom  in  which  the  magic  of  romance 
is  often  vividly  recreated.  Some  of  them,  and  Mr 
Masefield  pre-eminently,  have  gone  further.  They 
have  perceived  the  potential  romance  of  all  life,  and 
have  broken  down  the  old  limit  which  prescribed  to 
the  poet  only  graceful  figures  and  pseudo-heroic 
themes.  They  have  set  themselves  to  express  the 
wonder  and  mystery,  the  ecstasy  and  exaltation 
which  inhere,  however  obscurely,  in  the  lowliest 
human  existence. 

Thus  we  have  Saul  Kane,  the  village  wastrel  of 
"  The  Everlasting  Mercy,"  glimpsing  his  heritage, 
for  a  moment,  in  a  lucid  interval  of  a  drunken  orgy. 
Suddenly,  for  a  marvellous  instant,  he  is  made  aware 
of  beauty,  smitten  into  consciousness  of  himself 
and  a  fugitive  apprehension  of  reality. 

I  opened  window  wide  and  leaned 

Out  of  that  pigstye  of  the  fiend 

And  felt  a  cool  wind  go  like  grace 

About  the  sleeping  market-place. 

The  clock  struck  three,  and  sweetly,  slowly, 

The  bells  chimed  Holy,  Holy,  Holy ; 

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John  Masefield 

And  summat  made  me  think  of  things. 
How  long  those  ticking  clocks  had  gone 
From  church  and  chapel,  on  and  on, 
Ticking  the  time  out,  ticking  slow 
To  men  and  girls  who'd  come  and  go, 


And  how  a  change  had  come.     And  then 
I  thought,  "  You  tick  to  different  men." 
What  with  the  fight  and  what  with  drinking 
And  being  awake  alone  there  thinking, 
My  mind  began  to  carp  and  tetter, 
"  If  this  life's  all,  the  beasts  are  better." 

The  elements  of  that  passage,  and  cumulatively 
to  its  end,  are  genuinely  romantic  :  the  heightened 
mood,  the  night  setting  of  darkness  and  solemnity, 
the  wondering  and  regretful  gaze  into  the  past,  and 
the  sense  of  eternal  mystery.  So,  too,  though  from 
a  very  different  aspect,  is  the  amazing  power  of  the 
mad  scene  in  this  poem.  The  fierce  zest  of  it 
courses  along  a  flaming  pathway  and  is  as  exhilarating 
in  its  speed  and  vigour  as  any  romantic  masterpiece 
in  the  older  manner.  It  is  difficult  to  quote,  in 
justice  to  the  author,  from  so  closely  woven  a  texture; 
but  there  is  a  short  passage  which  illustrates  over 
again  the  physical  development  that  we  have 
already  noted  balancing  mental  and  spiritual  quali- 
ties in  this  genius.  It  is  the  exultation  of  Kane  in 

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Contemporary  'Poets 

his  swiftness,  as  he  rages  through  the  streets  with 
a  crowd  toiling  after  him. 

The  men  who  don't  know  to  the  root 
The  joy  of  being  swift  of  foot, 
Have  never  known  divine  and  fresh 
The  glory  of  the  gift  of  flesh, 
Nor  felt  the  feet  exult,  nor  gone 
Along  a  dim  road,  on  and  on, 
Knowing  again  the  bursting  glows, 
The  mating  hare  in  April  knows, 
Who  tingles  to  the  pads  with  mirth 
At  being  the  swiftest  thing  on  earth. 
O,  if  you  want  to  know  delight, 
Run  naked  in  an  autumn  night, 
And  laugh,  as  I  laughed  then.  .  .  . 

The  sensuous  ecstasy  of  that  is  as  strongly  con- 
trasted with  the  pensiveness  of  the  previous  scene 
at  the  window  as  it  is  with  the  gentle  rhapsody 
which  follows  the  drunkard's  conversion.  Of  that 
rhapsody  what  can  one  say  ?  It  is  a  piece  about 
which  words  seem  inadequate,  or  totally  futile. 
Perhaps  one  comment  may  be  made,  however. 
Reading  it  for  the  twentieth  time,  and  marvelling 
once  more  at  the  religious  emotion  which,  in  its  naive 
sweetness  and  intensity  is  so  strange  an  apparition 
in  our  day,  my  mind  flew,  with  a  sudden  sense  of 
enlightenment,  back  to  Chaucer.  At  first,  reflection 
made  the  transition  seem  abrupt  to  absurdity  ;  but 
208 


John  Masefield 

the  connexion  had  no  doubt  been  helped  sub- 
consciously by  the  apt  fragment  from  Lydgate  on 
the  fly-leaf  of  this  poem.  Thence  it  was  but  a  step 
to  the  large  humanity,  the  sympathy  and  tolerance 
and  generosity,  the  wide  understanding  bred  of 
practical  knowledge  of  men  and  affairs,  of  the  father 
of  poets.  An  actual  likeness  gleamed  which  was  at 
the  same  time  piquant  and  satisfying.  For,  first,  it 
stimulated  curiosity  regarding  the  use  by  this  poet 
of  the  Chaucerian  rhyme-royal  in  three  of  these  long 
poems.  That  evinces  a  leaning  on  traditional  form 
rather  curious  in  so  independent  an  artist.  And 
then  it  teased  the  mind  with  suggestions  that  led 
out  of  range — about  mental  affinities,  and  the 
different  manifestations  of  the  same  type  of  genius, 
born  into  ages  so  far  apart. 

It  is  not,  of  course,  a  question  of  exact  or  direct 
comparison  between,  let  us  say,  the  Canterbury 
Tales  and  these  narrative  poems  of  the  twentieth 
century.  It  is  rather  a  matter  of  the  spirit  of  the 
whole  work,  of  the  personality  and  its  reaction  to 
life,  which  satisfy  one  individual  at  least  of  a  resem- 
blance. Of  course  it  is  not  easily  susceptible  of 
proof  ;  but  there  are  passages  from  the  two  poets 
which  in  thought,  feeling,  and  even  manner  of 
expression,  will  almost  form  a  parallel.  Con- 
sider this  stanza  from  a  minor  poem  of  Chaucer, 

o  209 


Contemporary   'Poets 

a  prayer  to  the  Virgin  in  the  quaint  form  of  an 
"A.  B.  C." 

Xristus,  thy  sone,  that  in  this  world  alighte, 
Up-on  the  cros  to  suffre  his  passioun, 
And  eek,  that  Longius  his  herte  pighte, 
And  made  his  herte  blood  to  renne  adoun  ; 
And  al  was  this  for  my  salvacioun  ; 
And  I  to  him  am  fals  and  eek  unkinde, 
And  yit  he  wol  not  my  dampnacioun — 
This  thanke  I  you,  socour  of  al  mankinde. 

The  childlike  faith  of  that,  the  quiet  rapture 
of  adoration,  the  abandon  and  simple  confidence, 
are  curiously  matched  by  the  following  passage 
from  "  The  Everlasting  Mercy."  Saul  Kane  has 
found  his  soul  in  the  mystical  re-birth  of  Christi- 
anity, and  dawn  coming  across  the  fields  lightens 
all  his  world  with  new  significance. 

O  Christ  who  holds  the  open  gate, 
O  Christ  who  drives  the  furrow  straight, 
O  Christ,  the  plough,  O  Christ,  the  laughter 
Of  holy  white  birds  flying  after, 
Lo,  all  my  heart's  field  red  and  torn, 
And  Thou  wilt  bring  the  young  green  corn, 
The  young  green  corn  divinely  springing, 
The  young  green  corn  for  ever  singing  ; 
And  when  the  field  is  fresh  and  fair 
Thy  blessed  feet  shall  glitter  there. 
And  we  will  walk  the  weeded  field, 
And  tell  the  golden  harvest's  yield, 
2IO 


John  Masefield 

The  corn  that  makes  the  holy  bread 
By  which  the  soul  of  man  is  fed, 
The  holy  bread,  the  food  unpriced, 
Thy  everlasting  mercy,  Christ. 

So  one  might  go  on  to  contrast  the  several 
characteristics  of  this  poetry,  and  to  trace  them 
back  to  the  combination  of  qualities  in  the  author's 
genius.  This  elemental  religious  emotion,  dramati- 
cally fitted  as  it  is  to  the  character,  could  only  have 
found  such  expression  by  a  mind  which  deeply  felt 
the  primary  human  need  of  religion,  and  which  was 
relatively  untroubled  by  abstract  philosophy.  But 
set  over  against  that  is  the  almost  pagan  joy  in  the 
senses,  the  vigour  and  love  of  action  which  make 
so  strong  a  physical  basis  to  this  work  ;  whilst,  on 
the  other  hand,  there  stands  the  astonishing  con- 
trast between  the  lyrical  intensity  of  the  idyllic  pas- 
sages of  these  poems  ;  and  the  dramatic  power  (at 
once  identified  with  humanity  and  detached  from 
it)  which  has  created  characters  of  ardent  vitality. 

There  is,  of  course,  a  corresponding  technical 
contrast  ;  but  the  fact  that  it  does  '  correspond  '  is 
an  answer  to  the  critics  who  object  to  the  violence  of 
certain  scenes  or  to  a  literal  rendering  here  and  there 
of  thought  or  word.  Granted  that  this  poet  is 
not  much  concerned  to  polish  or  refine  his  verse,  it 
remains  true  that  the  same  sense  of  fitness  which 

211 


Contemporary   T^oets 

closes  three  of  these  tragedies  in  exquisite  serenity, 
governs  elsewhere  an  occasional  crudity  of  expression 
or  a  touch  of  banality.  It  is  largely — though  not 
always — a  question  of  dramatic  truth.  The  medium 
is  related  to  the  material  of  this  poetry  and  ruled  by 
its  moods.  Hence  its  realism  is  not  an  external 
or  arbitrary  thing.  It  is  something  more  than  a 
trick  of  style  or  the  adoption  of  a  literary  mode, 
being  indeed  a  living  form  evolved  by  the  reality 
which  the  poet  has  designed  to  express. 

The  root  ot  the  matter  lies  in  a  stanza  of 
"  Dauber."  The  young  artist-seaman,  who  is  the 
protagonist  here,  has  for  long  been  patiently 
toiling  at  his  art  at  the  prompting  of  instinct — the 
aesthetic  impulse  to  capture  and  make  permanent 
the  beauty  of  the  material  world.  But  the  pressure 
of  reality  upon  him,  the  unimaginable  hardships 
of  a  sailor's  existence,  have  threatened  to  crush  his 
spirit.  A  crisis  of  physical  fear  and  depression  has 
supervened ;  terror  of  the  storms  that  the  ship 
must  soon  encounter,  of  the  frightful  peril  of  his 
work  aloft,  and  of  the  brutality  of  his  shipmates,  has 
shaken  him  to  the  soul.  For  a  moment,  even  his  art 
is  obscured,  shrouded  and  almost  lost  in  the  whirl 
of  these  overmastering  realities.  But  when  it  emerges 
from  the  chaos  it  brings  revelation  to  the  painter  of 
its  own  inviolable  relation  with  those  same  realities. 

212 


John  Masefield 

...  a  thought  occurred 
Within  the  painter's  brain  like  a  bright  bird  : 

That  this,  and  so  much  like  it,  of  man's  toil, 
Compassed  by  naked  manhood  in  strange  places, 
Was  all  heroic,  but  outside  the  coil 
Within  which  modern  art  gleams  or  grimaces  ; 
That  if  he  drew  that  line  of  sailors'  faces 
Sweating  the  sail,  their  passionate  play  and  change, 
It  would  be  new,  and  wonderful,  and  strange. 

That  that  was  what  his  work  meant  ;  it  would  be 
A  training  in  new  vision.  .  .  . 

One  might  almost  accept  that  as  Mr  Masefield's 
own  confession  of  artistic  faith  ;  it  only  needs  the 
substitution  of  the  word  *  poet '  for  the  word 
'  painter  '  in  the  second  line.  But  it  is  not  quite 
complete  as  it  stands ;  and  an  important  article 
of  it  will  be  discovered  by  reading  this  poem 
through  and  noting  the  triumph  of  trie  ideal  over 
the  real,  which  is  the  essential  meaning  of  the  work. 
It  is  not  the  most  obvious  interpretation,  perhaps. 
The  idealist  broken  by  the  elements,  wasted  and 
thrown  aside,  is  hardly  a  victorious  figure  on  the 
face  of  things.  But,  in  spite  of  that,  the  poem  is  a 
song  of  victory — of  spirit  over  matter,  of  the  ideal 
over  reality,  of  art  over  life. 

The  fact  is  all  the  more  remarkable  when  we  turn 
for  a  moment  to  note  the  poet's  grip  on  facts.  We 

213 


Contemporary  'Poets 

have  just  seen  that  profound  sense  of  reality  lying 
at  the  base  of  his  technical  realism ;  and  it  has 
been  won,  through  a  comprehensive  experience,  by 
virtue  of  the  balance  of  his  equipment.  There  is 
no  bias  here,  of  mind  or  spirit,  which  would  have 
changed  the  clear  humanity  of  the  poet  into  the 
philosopher  or  the  mystic.  The  naivete  and  simple 
concrete  imagery  in  the  expression  of  religious 
feeling  are  far  removed  from  mysticism.  And,  on 
the  other  hand,  one  cannot  conceive  of  Mr  Masefield 
formally  ranged  with  the  abstractions  of  either 
the  materialist  or  the  idealist  school.  Yet  it  is  true 
that  "  Dauber  "  raises  the  practical  issue  between 
the  two  ;  and  because  the  poet  has  realized  life  pro- 
foundly and  dares  to  tell  the  truth  about  it,  the 
triumph  of  the  ideal  is  the  more  complete.  He 
shows  his  hero  scourged  by  the  elements  until  all 
sense  is  lost  but  that  of  physical  torture — 

.  .  .  below 

He  caught  one  giddy  glimpsing  of  the  deck 
Filled  with  white  water,  as  though  heaped  with  snow. 

...  all  was  an  icy  blast. 

Roaring  from  nether  hell  and  filled  with  ice, 
Roaring  and  crashing  on  the  jerking  stage, 
An  utter  bridle  given  to  utter  vice, 
Limitless  power  mad  with  endless  rage 
Withering  the  soul ; 

214 


John  Masefeld 

With  greater  daring  still  we  are  shown  the 
spirit  itself,  cowering  in  temporary  defeat  before 
material  force — 

"  This  is  the  end,"  he  muttered,  "  come  at  last  ! 

Pve  got  to  go  aloft,  facing  this  cold. 

I  can't.     I  can't.     I'll  never  keep  my  hold. 

.  .  .  I'm  a  failure.     All 
My  life  has  been  a  failure.     They  were  right. 

I'll  never  paint.     Best  let  it  end  to-night. 
I'll  slip  over  the  side.     I've  tried  and  failed." 

And  then,  finally,  the  poet  does  not  shrink  from 
the  last  and  grimmest  reality.  He  seems  to  say — • 
Let  material  force  do  its  utmost  against  this  man. 
Admit  the  most  dreadful  possibility  ;  shatter  the 
life,  with  its  fine  promise,  its  aspiration  and  toil  and 
precious  perception  of  beauty,  and  fling  it  to  the 
elements  which  claim  it.  Nevertheless  the  spirit 
will  conquer,  as  it  has  won  in  the  long  fight 
hitherto  and  will  continue  to  win.  When  the 
Dauber  had  been  goaded  almost  beyond  endur- 
ance by  the  cruelty  of  his  shipmates,  and  when 
their  taunts  had  availed  at  last  to  conjure  in  him  a 
sickening  doubt  of  his  vocation,  the  poet  repre- 
sents him  as  turning  instinctively  to  his  easel, 
and  healed  in  a  moment  of  all  the  abasement  and 
derision — 

215 


Contemporary   'Poets 

He  dipped  his  brush  and  tried  to  fix  a  line, 
And  then  came  peace,  and  gentle  beauty  came, 
Turning  his  spirit's  water  into  wine, 
Lightening  his  darkness  with  a  touch  of  flame  : 

So,  too,  when  the  horror  of  the  storm  and  the 
immense  danger  of  his  work  aloft  had  shaken  his 
manhood  for  a  moment  :  when  he  saw  his  life  as 
one  '  long  defeat  of  doing  nothing  well '  and  death 
seemed  an  easy  escape  from  it,  a  rallying  cry  from 
the  spirit  sent  him  to  face  his  duty  : 

And  then  he  bit  his  lips,  clenching  his  mind, 
And  staggered  out  to  muster,  beating  back 
The  coward  frozen  self  of  him  that  whined. 

And  in  the  last  extremity,  when  he  lay  upon  the 
deck  broken  by  his  fall  and  rapidly  slipping  back  into 
the  eternal  silence,  the  ideal  gleamed  before  him 
still.  It  will  go  on  !  he  cried  ;  and  the  four  small 
words,  considered  in  their  setting,  with  the  weight 
of  the  story  behind  them,  have  deep  significance. 
For  they  bring  a  challenge  to  reality  from  a  poet 
who  has  very  clearly  apprehended  it  ;  and  in  their 
triumphant  idealism  they  put  the  corner-stone  upon 
his  philosophy  and  his  art. 


216 


Harold  Monro 

THE  poetry  of  Mr  Monro — that  which 
counts  most,  the  later  work — is  of  fine 
texture  and  subtle  perfume.  It  is, 
moreover,  individual  in  its  thought  and  form ; 
and  the  unusual  elements  in  it,  which  are  yet 
not  sufficiently  bizarre  to  snatch  attention,  offer 
a  new  kind  of  charm  to  the  poetry  lover.  But 
that  person,  as  we  know,  still  prefers  to  take  his 
poetry  in  the  traditional  manner  ;  and  hence  the 
audience  for  work  like  this,  delicately  sensitive  and 
quietly  thoughtful,  is  likely  to  be  small.  It  will 
be  fully  appreciative,  however,  gladly  exchanging 
stormy  raptures  for  a  quiet  and  satisfying  beauty ; 
and  it  will  be  of  a  temper  which  will  delight  to 
trace  in  this  work,  subdued  almost  to  a  murmur, 
the  same  influences  which  are  urging  some  of  his 
contemporaries  to  louder,  more  emphatic,  and 
more  copious  expression. 

A  particular  interest  of  this  poetry  is  precisely  the 
way  in  which  those  influences  have  been  subdued. 
It  is  that  which  gives  the  individual  stamp  to  its 
art ;  but,  curiously,  it  is  also  that  which  marks  its 
heredity,  and  defines  its  place  in  the  succession  of 
English  poetry.  There  is  independence  here,  but 
not  isolation ;  nor  is  there  violent  conflict  with 

217 


Contemporary  *Poets 

an  older  poetic  ideal.  On  the  contrary,  a  recon- 
ciliation has  been  made  ;  balance  has  been  attained  ; 
and  revolutionary  principles,  whether  in  the  region 
of  technique  or  ideas,  have  been  harnessed  and 
controlled.  So  that  this  work,  while  fairly  repre- 
senting the  new  poetry,  is  clearly  related  in  the 
direct  line  to  the  old.  A  little  "  Impression,"  one 
of  a  group  at  the  end  of  the  volume  called  Before 
Dawn,  will  illustrate  this  : 

She  was  young  and  blithe  and  fair, 
Firm  of  purpose,  sweet  and  strong, 
Perfect  was  her  crown  of  hair. 
Perfect  most  of  all  her  song. 

Yesterday  beneath  an  oak, 
She  was  chanting  in  the  wood  : 
Wandering  harmonies  awd^e  ; 
Sleeping  echoes  understood. 

To-day  without  a  song,  without  a  word, 
She  seems  to  drag  one  piteous  fallen  wing 
Along  the  ground,  and,  like  a  wounded  bird. 
Move  silent,  having  lost  the  heart  to  sing. 

She  was  young  and  blithe  and  fair, 
Firm  of  purpose,  sweet  and  strong, 
Perfect  was  her  crown  of  hair, 
Perfect  most  of  all  her  song. 

One  may  cite  a  piece  like  that,  breaking  away,  in 
the  third  stanza,  to  a  rhythm  better  fitted  to  ex- 
press the  tragic  change  of  mood,  as  an  example  of 
218 


Harold  Monro 

normal  development  in  English  prosody.  And  that 
is,  perhaps,  the  final  significance  of  Mr  Monro's 
work.  With  less  temptation  to  waywardness  than 
a  more  exuberant  genius,  he  has  achieved  a  com- 
pleter  harmony.  But  it  was  not  so  easy  a  task  as  the 
quiet  manner  would  cheat  one  into  supposing  ;  and, 
of  course,  it  has  not  always  been  so  successfully  done. 
There  are  many  pieces — beautiful  nevertheless — 
where  external  influences  have  not  been  completely 
subdued.  From  them  one  may  measure  the  strength 
with  which  contemporary  thought  claims  this 
poet.  For  it  appears  that  he,  too,  cannot  be  at 
ease  in  Zion  ;  that  he  is  troubled  and  ashamed  by 
reason  of  a  social  conscience  ;  that  he  is  haunted 
by  an  unappeasable  questioning  spirit ;  that  he  is 
perpetually  seeking  after  the  spiritual  element  in 
existence.  Indeed,  so  clear  and  persistent  is  this  last 
motive,  that  if  one  were  aiming  epithets  it  would 
be  possible  to  fit  the  word  c  religious  '  to  the  essential 
nature  of  Mr  Monro's  poetry.  Of  course,  no  poet, 
be  he  great  or  small,  can  be  packed  into  the  compass 
of  a  single  word.  His  work  will  mean  much  more, 
and  sometimes  greatly  different  from  that.  And 
the  word  religious  in  this  connexion  is  more  than 
usually  hazardous,  for  almost  all  the  connotations 
are  against  it.  It  is  true  that  the  common  meaning, 
bandied  on  the  lips  of  happy  irresponsibles,  has  no 

219 


Contemporary  T^oets 

application  here.  On  the  contrary,  it  seems  some- 
times completely  reversed ;  and  the  good  un- 
thinking folk  would  find  themselves  nonplussed  by 
such  a  piece  as  that  called  "  The  Poets  are  Waiting," 
in  the  chapbook  which  Mr  Munro  published  at  the 
end  of  1914.  Yet  it  is  of  the  essence  of  religion  ; 
and  it  most  faithfully  presents  the  spiritual  crisis 
which  was  precipitated  by  the  Great  War  for  many 
who  had  clung  to  a  last  vague  hope  of  some  intelli- 
gent providence — 

To  what  God 
Shall  we  chant 
Our  songs  of  Battle  ? 

Hefty  barbarians, 

Roaring  for  war, 

Are  breaking  upon  us  ; 

Clouds  of  their  cavalry, 

Waves  of  their  infantry, 

Mountains  of  guns. 

Winged  they  are  coming, 

Plated  and  mailed, 

Snorting  their  jargon. 

Oh  to  whom  shall  a  song  of  battle  be  chanted  ? 

Not  to  our  lord  of  the  hosts  on  his  ancient  throne, 
.  Drowsing  the  ages  out  in  Heaven  alone. 
The  celestial  choirs  are  mute,  the  angels  have  fled  : 
Word  is  gone  forth  abroad  that  our  lord  is  dead. 
220 


Harold  Monro 

To  what  God 
Shall  we  chant 
Our  songs  of  Battle  ? 

I  do  not  wish  to  stress  unduly  the  spiritual 
element  in  this  work,  but  it  compels  attention  for 
two  reasons.  It  is  a  dominant^ impulse,  supplying 
themes  which  occur  early  and  late  and  often ;  and 
the  manner  of  its  expression  reveals  a  link  with  the 
past  generation  which  is  analogous  to  the  technical 
connexion  that  we  have  already  noted. 

The  signs  of  descent  from  the  Victorians  are 
naturally  to  be  found  in  the  early  poems.  There 
is,  for  example,  the  inevitable  classic  theme  treated 
in  the  (also  inevitable)  romantic  manner,  and  making 
a  charming  combination,  despite  the  grumblings  of 
the  realist  and  the  pedant.  That,  however,  is  a  very 
obvious  and  external  mark  of  descent.  A  more 
interesting  sign  is  in  the  spirit  of  "A  Song  at 
Dawn,"  a  wail  to  the  Power  of  Powers  which  the 
author  probably  wishes  to  forget.  So  I  will  not 
quote  it.  The  point  about  it  is  the  celerity  with 
which  it  sends  thought  flying  back  to  Matthew 
Arnold  and  "  Dover  Beach."  Yet  there  is  an  im- 
portant difference.  For  whilst  the  Victorian  muses 
upon  the  decay  of  faith  with  exquisite  mournfulness, 
the  c  Georgian  '  takes  an  attitude  of  greater  detach- 
ment. Instead  of  grieving  for  a  dead  or  dying 

221 


Contemporary   *Poets 

system  of  theology,  he  seeks  to  question  the  reality 
which  lies  behind  it. 

In  the  volume  of  1911,  called  Before  Dawn,  there 
are  several  poems  which  pursue  the  same  quest. 
Sometimes  the  method  is  one  of  provocative 
directness,  as  in  the  dramatic  piece  called  "  God  "  ; 
and  at  other  times  it  is  by  way  of  symbol  or  sugges- 
tion, as  in  "  Moon-worshippers  "  or  "  Two  Visions." 
From  the  nature  of  things,  however,  the  pieces  in 
which  the  argumentative  attitude  is  taken  are  the 
less  satisfying,  as  poetry.  Thus  the  colloquy  in 
"  God  "  just  fails,  from  the  polemical  theme,  of 
being  truly  dramatic  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
its  form  prevents  it  from  rising  into  such  lovely 
lyrism  as  that  of  "  The  Last  Abbot."  In  the 
former  poem  we  are  to  imagine  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  people  coming  in  and  out  of  an  old 
English  tavern  on  market  day  ;  and  all  of  them 
ready  and  willing  to  enlighten  a  travel-stained  pil- 
grim there  as  to  "  Who  and  what  is  God  ?  "  One 
sees  the  allegory,  of  course  ;  but,  somehow,  that  is 
less  convincing  than  the  touches  of  satirical  por- 
traiture which  we  find  in  passing,  and  which  point 
to  this  poet's  gift  of  objectivity.  The  judge  and 
the  priest,  the  soldier  and  sailor  and  farmer,  the 
beggar,  thief  and  merchant,  are  presented  mainly 
as  types  :  that,  of  course,  being  demanded  by  the 
222 


Harold  Monro 

allegory.  And  when  a  poet  arrives  to  solve  the 
problem,  he  also  speaks  '  in  character  ' — though 
we  recognize  the  voice  for  one  more  modern  than 
his  reputed  age. 

.  .  .  God  is  a  spirit,  not  a  creed  ; 
He  is  an  inner  out  ward -moving  power  : 

He  is  that  one  Desire,  that  life,  that  breath, 
That  Soul  which,  with  infinity  of  pain, 
Passes  through  revelation  and  through  death 
Onward  and  upward  to  itself  again. 

Out  of  the  lives  of  heroes  and  their  deeds, 
Out  of  the  miracle  of  human  thought, 
Out  of  the  songs  of  singers,  God  proceeds  ; 
And  of  the  soul  of  them  his  Soul  is  wrought. 

There  follows  a  quick  clatter  of  disputation, 
broken  by  the  entrance  of  the  philosopher  ;  and 
the  pilgrim's  question  being  put  to  him,  he  replies — 

God  ?     God  !    There  is  no  GOD. 

Thus  '  the  spirit  that  denies  '  abruptly  shatters 
the  poetic  vision;  and  the  artistic  effect  is,  corre- 
spondingly, to  break  the  music  of  the  previous 
stanzas  with  a  sudden  discord.  The  design  of  the 
work  required  that  the  philosopher  should  be 
heard,  and  dramatic  fitness  suggested  that  his  most 
effective  entrance  would  be  here,  rending  the  fair 

223 


Contemporary   TPoet  s 

new  synthesis  with  denial.     And  the  resulting  dis- 
sonance is  inherent  in  the  very  scheme  of  the  poem. 

That  defect  does  not  appear  in  "  The  Last 
Abbot,"  which  is  also  engaged  upon  the  thought 
of  the  universal  soul.  Here  an  old  monk,  knowing 
that  he  is  drawing  near  the  end  of  life,  quietly  talks  to 
the  brethren  of  his  order  about  life  and  death  and 
after-death.  There  is  no  argument,  no  discussion 
even.  No  other  voice  is  raised  to  interrupt  the 
meditative  flow  of  the  old  man's  message,  which  is, 
in  fact,  a  recantation.  And,  as  a  consequence,  the 
poem  has  a  unity  of  serene  reflectiveness,  rising  at 
times  to  lyrical  ecstasy.  He  is  thinking  of  his 
approaching  death — 

Oh,  I,  with  light  and  airy  change, 
Across  the  azure  sky  shall  range, 
When  I  am  dead. 


I  shall  be  one 

Of  all  the  misty,  fresh  and  healing  powers. 

Dew  I  shall  be,  and  fragrance  of  the  morn, 

And  quietly  shall  lie  dreaming  all  the  noon, 

Or  oft  shall  sparkle  underneath  the  moon, 

A  million  times  shall  die  and  be  reborn, 

Because  the  sun  again  and  yet  again 

Shall  snatch  me.  softly  from  the  earth  away  : 

I  shall  be  rain  : 

I  shall  be  spray  ; 

224 


Harold  Monro 

At  night  shall  oft  among  the  misty  shades 
Pass  dreamily  across  the  open  lea  ; 
And  I  shall  live  in  the  loud  cascades, 
Pouring  their  waters  into  the  sea. 
.  .  .  Nought  can  die  : 
All  belongs  to  the  living  Soul, 
Makes,  and  partakes,  and  is  the  whole, 
All — and  therefore,  I. 

So  much  then  for  the  poet's  cosmic  theory,  pre- 
sented more  or  less  directly.  This  explicit  treat- 
ment may,  as  we  see,  give  individual  passages  where 
thought  and  feeling  are  completely  fused,  and  the 
idea  gets  itself  born  into  a  shape  sufficiently  con- 
crete for  the  breath  of  poetry  to  live  in  it.  But 
the  final  effect  of  such  poems  is  apt  to  be  dimmed 
by  the  shadow  of  controversy.  A  subtler  method 
is  used,  however,  justified  in  a  finer  type  of  art. 
In  "  Don  Juan  in  Hell,"  for  instance,  there  is  a 
symbolical  presentment  of  the  theme  :  a  conception 
of  life  which  is  a  corollary  from  the  poet's  theory 
of  the  universe.  Don  Juan  is  here  an  incarnation 
of  the  vital  forces  of  the  world,  of  the  positive 
value  and  power  of  life  which  is  in  eternal  con- 
flict with  a  religion  of  negation.  And,  a  new- 
comer among  the  shades  in  Hell,  he  turns  his 
scorn  upon  them  for  the  lascivious  passion  which 
found  it  necessary  to  invent  sin. 

j>  225 


Contemporary  "Poets 

Light,  light  your  fires, 

That  they  may  purify  your  own  desires  ! 

They  will  not  injure  me. 

This  fire  of  mine 

Was  kindled  from  the  torch  that  will  outshine 

Eternity. 


Proud,  you  disclaim 

That  fair  desire  from  which  all  came  ; 

Unworthy  of  your  lofty  human  birth, 

Despise  the  earth. 

O  crowd  funereal, 

Lifting  your  anxious  brows  because  of  sin, 

There  is  no  Heaven  such  as  you  would  win, 

Nor  any  other  Paradise  at  all, 

Save  in  fulfilling  some  superb  desire 

With  all  the  spirit's  fire. 

The  same  idea  is  woven  into  "  Moon- worshippers," 
with  delicate  grace.  It  constitutes  a  precise  charge, 
in  the  poem  "  To  Tolstoi,"  that  the  great  idealist 
has  forsworn  the  '  holy  way  of  life  '  ;  and,  recurring 
in  many  forms  more  or  less  explicit,  culminates  in 
the  charming  allegory  called  "  Children  of  Love." 
This  is  a  later  poem,  mature  in  thought  and  masterly 
in  form.  The  theme  is  by  this  time  a  familiar  one 
to  the  poet  :  he  has  considered  it  deeply  and  often. 
And  having  gone  through  the  crucible  so  many 
times,  it  is  now  of  a  fineness  and  plasticity  to  be 
226 


Harold  Monro 

handled  with  ease.  It  runs  into  the  symbolism 
here  so  lightly  as  hardly  to  awaken  an  echo  of  after- 
thought, and  shapes  to  an  allegory  much  too  winning 
to  provoke  controversy.  The  first  two  stanzas  of 
the  poem  imagine  the  boy  Jesus  walking  dreamily 
under  the  olives  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  : 

Suddenly  came 

Running  along  to  him  naked,  with  curly  hair, 

That  rogue  of  the  lovely  world, 

That  other  beautiful  child  whom  the  virgin  Venus  bare. 

The  holy  boy 

Gazed  with  those  sa^d  blue  eyes  that  all  men  know. 
Impudent  Cupid  stood  ^. 

Panting,  holding  an  arrow  and  pointing  his  bow. 

(Will  you  not  glay  ?, 

Jei^Ts,  run  to  him,  run  to  him,  swift  for  our  joy. 

Is  he  not  holy,  like  you  ? 

Are  you  afraid  of  his  arrows,  O  beautiful  dreaming  boy?) 

Marvellous  dream  ! 

Cupid  has  offered  his  arrows  for  Jesus  to  try ; 
He  has  offered  his  bow  for  the  game. 
But   Jesus   went    weeping   away,    and  left   him   there 
wondering  why. 

That  may  be   taken  as  Mr  Monro's  most  repre- 
sentative poem.     On  our  theory,  therefore  (of  this 

227 


Contemporary  'Poets 

work  as  a  link  with  the  older  school),  the  piece 
might  serve  to  indicate  the  point  which  contempo- 
rary poetry  has  reached,  advancing  in  technique  and 
in  thought  straight  from  the  previous  generation. 
Not  that  it  is  the  most  '  advanced  '  piece  (in  the 
specific  sense  of  the  word)  which  one  could  cite 
from  modern  poets.  Many  and  strange  have  been 
the  theories  evolved  on  independent  lines,  just 
as  numerous  weird  technical  effects  have  been 
gained  by  breaking  altogether  with  the  tradition 
of  native  prosody.  But  Mr  Monro's  poetry 
continues  the  tradition ;  and  whether  it  be  in 
content  or  in  form,  it  has  pushed  forward,  in  the 
normal  manner  of  healthy  growth,  from  the  stage 
immediately  preceding. 

The  new  technical  features  are  clear  enough, 
and  all  owe  their  origin  to  a  determination  to  gain 
the  greatest  possible  freedom  within  the  laws  of 
English  versification.  Rhyme  is  no  longer  a  merely 
decorative  figure,  gorgeous  but  tyrannical.  It  is 
an  instrument  of  potential  range  and  power,  to  be 
used  with  restraint  by  an  austere  artist.  In 
"  Children  of  Love  "  it  occurs  just  often  enough 
to  convey  the  gentle  sadness  of  the  emotional 
atmosphere.  But  very  beautiful  effects  are  gained 
without  it,  as,  for  instance,  in  another  of  these  later 
poems,  called  "  Great  City  "— 
228 


Harold  Monro 

When  I  returned  at  sunset, 
The  serving-maid  was  singing  softly 
Under  the  dark  stairs,  and  in  the  house 
Twilight  had  entered  like  a  moonray. 
Time  was  so  dead  I  could  not  understand 
The  meaning  of  midday  or  of  midnight, 
But  like  falling  waters,  falling,  hissing,  falling, 
Silence  seemed  an  everlasting  sound. 

The  verse  is  not  now  commonly  marked  by  an 
exact  number  of  syllables  or  feet,  nor  the  stanza 
divided  into  a  regular  number  of  verses,  except 
where  the  subject  requires  precision  of  effect.  An 
order  of  recurrence  does  exist,  however,  giving  the 
definite  form  essential  to  poetry.  But  it  is  deter- 
mined by  factors  which  make  for  greater  naturalness 
and  flexibility  than  the  hard-and-fast  division  into 
ten-  or  eight-foot  lines  and  stanzas  of  a  precise  pat- 
tern. The  ruling  influences  now  are  various— 
the  thought  which  is  to  be  expressed,  and  the 
phases  through  which  it  passes :  the  nature  and 
strength  of  the  emotion,  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the 
poetic  impulse. 

Thus,  while  metrical  rhythm  is  retained,  it  has 
been  freed  from  its  former  monotonous  regularity, 
and  has  become  almost  infinitely  varied.  The 
dissyllable,  dominant  hitherto,  has  taken  a  much 
humbler  place.  Every  metre  into  which  English 

229 


Contemporary  "Poets 

words  will  run  is  now  adopted,  and  fresh  com- 
binations are  constantly  being  made  ;  while  upon 
the  poetic  rhythm  itself  is  super-imposed  the 
natural  rhythm  of  speech.  In  most  of  these  de- 
vices Mr  Monro,  and  others,  are  presumably  fol- 
lowing the  precept  and  example  of  the  Laureate  ; 
but  in  any  case  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  the 
richness,  suppleness,  and  variety  of  the  metrical 
effects  attained.  Most  of  the  pieces  in  this  little 
chapbook  illustrate  at  some  point  the  influence  of 
untrammelled  speech-rhythm  ;  and  in  one,  called 
"  Hearthstone,"  it  is  rather  accentuated.  I  quote 
from  the  poem  for  that  reason  :  the  slight  excess 
will  enable  the  device  to  be  observed  more  readily, 
but  will  not  obscure  other  characteristic  qualities 
which  are  clearly  marked  here — of  tenderness, 
quiet  tone,  and  delicate  colouring. 
I  want  nothing  but  your  fireside  now. 

Your  book  has  dropped  unnoticed  :  you  have  read 

So  long  you  cannot  send  your  brain  to  bed. 

The  low  quiet  room  and  all  its  things  are  caught 

And  linger  in  the  meshes  of  your  thought. 

(Some  people  think  they  know  time  cannot  pause.) 

Your  eyes  are  closing  now  though  not  because 

Of  sleep.     You   are   searching   something  with   your 

brain  ; 
You  have  let  the  old  dog's  paw  drop  down  again  .  .  . 

230 


Harold  Monro 

Now  suddenly  you  hum  a  little  catch, 

And  pick  up  the  book.     The  wind  rattles  the  latch  ; 

There's  a  patter  of  light  cool  rain  and  the  curtain 

shakes  ; 

The  silly  dog  growls,  moves,  and  almost  wakes. 
The  kettle  near  the  fire  one  moment  hums. 
Then  a  long  peace  upon  the  whole  room  comes. 
So  the  sweet  evening  will  draw  to  its  bedtime  end. 
I  want  nothing  now  but  your  fireside,  friend. 

Thus  the  technique  of  modern  poetry  would  seem 
to  be  moving  towards  a  more  exact  rendering  of  the 
music  and  the  meaning  of  our  language.  That  is 
to  say,  there  is,  in  prosody  itself,  an  impulse  towards 
truth  of  expression,  which  may  be  found  to  corre- 
spond to  the  heightened  sense  of  external  fact  in 
contemporary  poetic  genius,  as  well  as  to  its  closer 
hold  upon  reality.  Thence  comes  the  realism  of 
much  good  poetry  now  being  written  :  triune,  as 
all  genuine  realism  must  be,  since  it  proceeds  out 
of  a  spiritual  conviction,  a  mental  process  and  actual 
craftsmanship.  That  Mr  Monro's  work  is  also 
trending  in  this  direction,  almost  every  piece  in 
his  last  little  book  will  testify.  And  if  it  seem  a 
surprising  fact,  that  is  only  because  one  has  found 
it  necessary  to  quote  from  the  more  subjective  of 
his  early  lyrics.  It  would  have  been  possible,  out  of 
the  narrative  called  "  Judas,"  or  the  "  Impressions  " 
at  the  end  of  Before  Dawn,  to  indicate  this  poet's 

231 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

objective  power.  He  has  a  gift  of  detachment  ;  of 
cool  and  exact  observation  ;  and  to  this  is  joined  a 
dexterity  of  satiric  touch  which  serves  indignation 
well.  Hence  the  portraits  of  the  epicure  at  the 
Carlton  and  the  city  swindler  in  the  role  of  county 
gentleman.  Hence,  too,  poems  like  "  The  Virgin  " 
or  "  A  Suicide  "  :  though  here  it  is  unfortunate 
that  imagination  has  been  allowed  to  play  upon 
abnormal  subjects.  The  result  may  be  an  acute 
psychological  study ;  and  interesting  on  that 
account.  But  if  it  is  to  be  a  choice  between 
two  extremes,  most  people  will  prefer  work  in 
which  fantasy  has  gone  off  to  a  region  in  the 
opposite  direction.  There  is  one  poem  in  which 
this  bizarre  sprite  has  taken  holiday  ;  and  thence 
comes  the  piece  of  glimmering  unreality  called 
"  Overheard  on  a  Saltmarsh." 

Nymph,  nymph,  what  are  your  beads  ? 

Green  glass,  goblin.     Why  do  you  stare  at  them  ? 

Give  them  me. 

No. 
Give  them  me.     Give  them  me. 

No. 

Then  I  will  howl  all  night  in  the  reeds, 
Lie  in  the  mud  and  howl  for  them. 

Goblin,  why  do  you  love  them  so  ? 

232 

i 


Harold  Monro 

They  are  better  than  stars  or  water, 
Better  than  voices  of  winds  that  sing, 
Better  than  any  man's  fair  daughter, 
Your  green  glass  beads  on  a  silver  ring. 

Hush  I  stole  them  out  of  the  moon. 

Give  me  your  beads,  I  desire  them. 

No. 

I  will  howl  in  a  deep  lagoon 
For  your  green  glass  beads,  I  love  them  so. 
Give  them  me.     Give  them. 

No. 

But  in  his  more  representative  work,  the  intellec- 
tual realism  which  comes  from  an  acute  sense  of 
fact  is  clearly  operative.  We  have  seen,  too,  from 
the  earliest  published  verse  of  this  poet,  the  continual 
struggle  of  what  one  may  call  a  religion  of  reality — 
belief  in  the  sanctity  and  beauty  and  value  of  the 
real  world — for  spiritual  mastery.  In  the  later 
poems  the  two  elements  become  deepened  and  are 
more  closely  combined  :  they  are,  too,  seeking  ex- 
pression through  a  technique  which  is  directed  to  the 
same  realistic  purpose.  And  as  a  result  we  get  such 
a  piece  of  quiet  fidelity  as  "  London  Interior  "  ; 
or  a  tragedy  like  "  Carrion,"  in  which  the  logic  of 
life  and  death,  controlling  emotion  with  beautiful 
gravity,  is  suddenly  broken  by  a  sob.  It  is  the 
last  of  four  war-poems  ;  a  series  representing  the 

233 


Contemporary   'Poets 

call  of  battle  to  the  soldier,  his  departure,  a 
fighting  retreat,  and  finally,  in  "  Carrion,"  his 
death — 

It  is  plain  now  what  you  are.     Your  head  has  dropped 
Into  a  furrow.     And  the  lovely  curve 
Of  your  strong  leg  has  wasted  and  is  propped 
Against  a  ridge  of  the  ploughed  land's  watery  swerve. 


You  are  fuel  for  a  coming  spring  if  they  leave  you  here  ; 
The  crop  that  will  rise  from  your  bones  is  healthy 

bread. 

You  died — we  know  you — without  a  word  of  fear, 
And  as  they  loved  you  living  I  love  you  dead. 

No  girl  would  kiss  you.     But  then 

No  girls  would  ever  kiss  the  earth 

In  the  manner  they  hug  the  lips  of  men  : 

You  are  not  known  to  them  in  this,  your  second  birth. 

Hush,  I  hear  the  guns.     Are  you  still  asleep  ? 
Surely  I  saw  you  a  little  heave  to  reply. 
I  can  hardly  think  you  will  not  turn  over  and  creep 
Along  the  furrows  trenchward  as  if  to  die. 


234 


Sarojini 


MRS  N  AIDU  is  one  of  the  two  Indian  poets 
who  within  the  last  few  years  have  pro- 
duced remarkable  English  poetry.  The 
second  of  the  two  is,  of  course,  Rabindranath  Tagore, 
whose  work  came  to  us  a  little  later,  who  has  pub- 
lished more,  and  whose  recent  visits  to  this  country 
have  brought  him  more  closely  under  the  public 
eye.  Mrs  Naidu  is  not  so  well  known  ;  but  she 
deserves  to  be,  for  although  the  bulk  of  her  work  is 
not  so  large,  its  quality,  so  far  as  it  can  be  compared 
with  that  of  her  compatriot,  will  easily  bear  the 
test.  It  is,  however,  so  different  in  kind,  and  reveals 
a  genius  so  contrasting,  that  one  is  piqued  by  an 
apparent  problem.  How  is  it  that  two  children 
of  what  we  are  pleased  to  call  the  changeless  East, 
under  conditions  nearly  identical,  should  have  pro- 
duced results  which  are  so  different  ? 

Both  of  these  poets  are  lyrists  born  ;  both  come 
of  an  old  and  distinguished  Bengali  ancestry  ;  in 
both  the  culture  of  East  and  West  are  happily  met  ; 
and  both  are  working  in  the  same  artistic  medium. 
Yet  the  poetry  of  Rabindranath  Tagore  is  mystical, 
philosophic,  and  contemplative,  remaining  oriental 
therefore  to  that  degree  ;  and  permitting  a  doubt 
of  the  Quarterly  reviewer's  dictum  that  "  Gitanjali  " 

235 


Contemporary   *Poets 

is  a  synthesis  of  western  and  oriental  elements.  The 
complete  synthesis  would  seem  to  rest  with  Mrs 
Naidu,  whose  poetry,  though  truly  native  to  her 
motherland,  is  more  sensuous  than  mystical,  human 
and  passionate  rather  than  spiritual,  and  reveals  a 
mentality  more  active  than  contemplative.  Her 
affiliation  with  the  Occident  is  so  much  the  more 
complete  ;  but  her  Eastern  origin  is  never  in  doubt. 
The  themes  of  her  verse  and  their  setting  are 
derived  from  her  own  country.  But  her  thought, 
with  something  of  the  energy  of  the  strenuous 
West  and  something  of  its  '  divine  discontent,'  plays 
upon  the  surface  of  an  older  and  deeper  calm  which 
is  her  birthright.  So,  in  her  "  Salutation  to  the 
Eternal  Peace,"  she  sings 

What  care  I  for  the  world's  loud  weariness, 
Who  dream  in  twilight  granaries  Thou  dost  bless 
With  delicate  sheaves  of  mellow  silences  ? 

Two  distinguished  poet-friends  of  Mrs  Naidu — 
Mr  Edmund  Gosse  and  Mr  Arthur  Symons — have 
introduced  her  two  principal  volumes  of  verse  with 
interesting  biographical  notes.  The  facts  thus  put  in 
our  possession  convey  a  picture  to  the  mind  which  is 
instantly  recognizable  in  the  poems.  A  gracious  and 
glowing  personality  appears,  quick  and  warm  with 
human  feeling,  exquisitely  sensitive  to  beauty  and 
236 


Sarojini  Naidu 

receptive  of  ideas,  wearing  its  culture,  old  and  new, 
scientific  and  humane,  with  simplicity ;  but,  as 
Mr  Symons  says,  "  a  spirit  of  too  much  fire  in  too 
frail  a  body,"  and  one  moreover  who  has  suffered 
and  fought  to  the  limit  of  human  endurance. 

We  hear  of  birth  and  childhood  in  Hyderabad  ; 
of  early  scientific  training  by  a  father  whose  great 
learning  was  matched  by  his  public  spirit  :  of  a  first 
poem  at  the  age  of  eleven,  written  in  an  impulse 
of  reaction  when  a  sum  in  algebra  '  would  not  come 
right  '  :  of  coming  to  England  at  the  age  of  sixteen 
with  a  scholarship  from  the  Nizam  college  ;  and  of 
three  years  spent  here,  studying  at  King's  College, 
London,  and  at  Girton,  with  glorious  intervals  of 
holiday  in  Italy. 

We  hear,  too,  of  a  love-story  that  would  make 
an  idyll ;  of  passion  so  strong  and  a  will  so  reso- 
lute as  almost  to  be  incredible  in  such  a  delicate 
creature ;  of  a  marriage  in  defiance  of  caste ;  of 
wedded  happiness  and  of  children.  And  all 
through,  as  a  dark  background  to  the  adventurous 
romance  of  her  life,  there  is  the  shadow  of  weak- 
ness and  ill-health.  That  shadow  creeps  into  her 
poems,  impressively,  now  and  then.  Indeed,  if  it 
were  lacking,  the  bright  oriental  colouring  would  be 
almost  too  vivid.  So,  apart  from  its  psychological 
and  human  interest,  we  may  be  thankful  for  such  a 

237 


Contemporary  'Poets 

poem  as  "  To  the  God  of  Pain."  It  softens  and 
deepens  the  final  impression  of  the  work. 

For  thy  dark  altars,  balm  nor  milk  nor  rice, 
But  mine  own  soul  thou'st  ta'en  for  sacrifice. 

The  poem  is  purely  subjective,  of  course,  as  is  the 
still  more  moving  piece,  "  The  Poet  to  Death,"  in 
the  same  volume. 

Tarry  a  while,  till  I  am  satisfied 
Of  love  and  grief,  of  earth  and  altering  sky  ; 
Till  all  my  human  hungers  are  fulfilled, 
O  Death,  I  cannot  die  ! 

We  know  that  that  is  a  cry  out  of  actual  and  repeated 
experience  ;  and  from  that  point  of  view  alone  it  has 
poignant  interest.  But  what  are  we  to  say  about 
the  spirit  of  it — the  philosophy  which  is  implicit 
in  it  ?  Here  is  an  added  value  of  a  higher  kind, 
evidence  of  a  mind  which  has  taken  its  own  stand 
upon  reality,  and  which  has  no  easy  consolations 
when  confronting  the  facts  of  existence.  For  this 
mind,  neither  the  religions  of  East  nor  West  are 
allowed  to  veil  the  truth  ;  neither  the  hope  of  Nir- 
vana nor  the  promise  of  Paradise  may  drug  her  sense 
of  the  value  of  life  nor  darken  her  perception  of  the 
beauty  'of  phenomena.  Resignation  and  renuncia- 
tion are  alike  impossible  to  this  ardent  being  who 
loves  the  earth  so  passionately  ;  but  the  '  sternly 

238 


Sarojini  Naidu 

scientific  '  nature  of  that  early  training — the  descrip- 
tion is  her  own — has  made  futile  regret  impossible, 
too.  She  has  entered  into  full  possession  of  the 
thought  of  our  time  ;  and  strongly  individual  as  she 
is,  she  has  evolved  for  herself,  to  use  her  own  words, 
a  "  subtle  philosophy  of  living  from  moment  to 
moment."  That  is  no  shallow  epicureanism,  how- 
ever, for  as  she  sings  in  a  poem  contrasting  our 
changeful  life  with  the  immutable  peace  of  the 
Buddha  on  his  lotus-throne — 

Nought  shall  conquer  or  control 
The  heavenward  hunger  of  our  soul. 

It  is  as  though,  realizing  that  the  present  is  the  only 
moment  of  which  we  are  certain,  she  had  determined 
to  crowd  that  moment  to  the  utmost  limit  of  living. 
From  such  a  philosophy,  materialism  of  a  nobler 
kind,  one  would  expect  a  love  of  the  concrete  and 
tangible,  a  delight  in  sense  impressions,  and  quick 
and  strong  emotion.  Those  are,  in  fact,  the  charac- 
teristics of  much  of  the  poetry  in  these  two  volumes, 
The  Golden  Threshold  and  The  Bird  of  Time.  The 
beauty  of  the  material  world,  of  line  and  especially 
of  colour,  is  caught  and  recorded  joyously.  Life 
is  regarded  mainly  from  the  outside,  in  action,  or  as 
a  pageant  ;  as  an  interesting  event  or  a  picturesque 
group.  It  is  not  often  brooded  over,  and  reflection 

239 


Contemporary   ^Poets 

is  generally  evident  in  but  the  lightest  touches.  The 
proportion  of  strictly  subjective  verse  is  small,  and 
is  not,  on  the  whole,  the  finest  work  technically. 

The  introspective  note  seems  unfavourable  to 
Mrs  Naidu's  art  :  naturally  so,  one  would  conclude, 
from  the  buoyant  temperament  that  is  revealed.  The 
love-songs  are  perhaps  an  exception,  for  one  or  two, 
which  (as  we  may  suppose)  treat  fragments  of  the 
poet's  own  story,  are  fine  in  idea  and  in  technique 
alike.  There  is,  for  example,  "  An  Indian  Love 
Song,"  in  the  first  stanza  of  which  the  lover  begs 
for  his  lady's  love.  But  she  reminds  him  of  the 
barriers  of  caste  between  them  ;  she  is  afraid  to 
profane  the  laws  of  her  father's  creed  ;  and  her 
lover's  kinsmen,  in  times  past,  have  broken  the 
altars  of  her  people  and  slaughtered  their  sacred 
kine.  The  lover  replies : 

What  are  the  sins  of  my  race,  Beloved,  what  are  my 

people  to  thee  ? 
And  what  are  thy  shrine,  and  kine  and  kindred,  what  are 

thy  gods  to  me  ? 
Love  recks  not  of  feuds  and  bitter  follies,  of  stranger, 

comrade  or  kin, 
Alike  in  his  ear  sound  the  temple  bells  and  the  cry  of 

the  muezzin. 

There  is  also  in  the  second  volume  the  "  Dirge," 
in  which  the  poet  mourns  the  widowed  state  of  a 
240 


Sarojini  Naidu 

friend  whose  husband  has  just  died  ;  and  which 
almost  unconsciously  reveals  the  influence  of 
centuries  of  Suttee  upon  the  mind  of  Indian 
womanhood. 

Shatter  her  shining  bracelets,  break  the  string 
Threading  the  mystic  marriage -beads  that  cling 
Loth  to  desert  a  sobbing  throat  so  sweet, 
Unbind  the  golden  anklets  on  her  feet, 
Divest  her  of  her  azure  veils  and  cloud 
Her  living  beauty  in  a  living  shroud. 

Even  here,  however,  the  effect  is  gained  by  colour 
and  movement  ;  by  the  grouping  of  images  rather 
than  by  the  development  of  an  idea  ;  and  that 
will  be  found  to  be  Mrs  Naidu's  method  in  the 
many  delightful  lyrics  of  these  volumes  where  she 
is  most  successful.  The  "  Folk  Songs  "  of  her  first 
book  are  an  example.  One  assumes  that  they  are 
early  work,  partly  because  they  are  the  first  group 
in  the  earlier  of  the  two  volumes  ;  but  more  par- 
ticularly because  they  adopt  so  literally  the  advice 
which  Mr  Edmund  Gosse  gave  her  at  the  begin- 
ning of  her  career.  When  she  came  as  a  girl  to 
England  and  was  a  student  of  London  University 
at  King's  College,  she  submitted  to  Mr  Gosse  a 
bundle  of  manuscript  poems.  He  describes  them 
as  accurate  and  careful  work,  but  too  derivative  ; 
modelled  too  palpably  on  the  great  poets  of  the 

Q  241 


Contemporary   'Poets 

previous  generation.  His  advice,  therefore,  was 
that  they  should  be  destroyed,  and  that  the  author 
should  start  afresh  upon  native  themes  and  in  her 
own  manner.  The  counsel  was  exactly  followed  : 
the  manuscript  went  into  the  wastepaper  basket, 
and  the  poet  set  to  work  on  what  we  cannot  doubt 
is  this  first  group  of  songs  made  out  of  the  lives  of 
her  own  people. 

There  is  all  the  hemisphere  between  these  lyrics 
and  those  of  late- Victorian  England.  Here  we  find 
a  "  Village  Song  "  of  a  mother  to  the  little  bride 
who  is  still  all  but  a  baby ;  and  to  whom  the  fairies 
call  so  insistently  that  she  will  not  stay  "  for  bridal 
songs  and  bridal  cakes  and  sandal-scented  leisure." 
In  the  song  of  the  "  Palanquin  Bearers  "  we  posi- 
tively see  the  lithe  and  rhythmic  movements  which 
bear  some  Indian  beauty  along,  lightly  "  as  a  pearl 
on  a  string."  And  there  is  a  song  written  to  one 
of  the  tunes  of  those  native  minstrels  who  wander, 
free  and  wild  as  the  wind,  singing  of 

The  sword  of  old  battles,  the  crown  of  old  kings, 
And  happy  and  simple  and  sorrowful  things. 

The   "  Harvest  Hymn  "   raises  thanksgiving  for 
strange  bounties  to  gods  of  unfamiliar  names  ;   and 
the  "  Cradle  Song  "  evokes  a  tropical  night,  heavy 
with  scent  and  drenched  with  dew — 
242 


Sarojini  Naidu 

Sweet,  shut  your  eyes, 

The  wild  fire-flies 
Dance  through  the  fairy  neem  ; 

From  the  poppy-bole, 

For  you  I  stole 
A  little,  lovely  dream. 

In  its  lightness  and  grace,  this  poem  is  one  of  the 
exquisite  things  in  our  language  :  one  of  the  little 
lyric  flights,  like  William  Watson's  "  April,"  which 
in  their  clear  sweetness  and  apparent  spontaneity 
are  like  some  small  bird's  song.  Mrs  Naidu  has  said 
of  herself — "  I  sing  just  as  the  birds  do  "  ;  and  as 
regards  her  loveliest  lyrics  (there  are  a  fair  proportion 
of  them)  she  speaks  a  larger  truth  than  she  meant. 
Their  simplicity  and  abandonment  to  the  sheer 
joy  of  singing  are  infinitely  refreshing  ;  and  fragile 
though  they  seem,  one  suspects  them  of  great 
vitality.  In  the  later  volume  there  is  another 
called  "  Golden  Cassia  " — the  bright  blooms  that 
her  people  call  mere  '  woodland  flowers.'  The 
poet  has  other  fancies  about  them ;  sometimes 
they  seem  to  her  like  fragments  of  a  fallen  star — 

Or  golden  lamps  for  a  fairy  shrine, 

Or  golden  pitchers  for  fairy  wine. 

Perchance  you  are,  O  frail  and  sweet  ! 

Bright  anklet -bells  from  the  wild  spring's  feet, 

Or  the  gleaming  tears  that  some  fair  bride  shed 
Remembering  her  lost  maidenhead. 

243 


Contemporary 

The  tenderness  and  delicacy  of  verse  like  that 
might  mislead  us.  We  might  suppose  that  the 
qualities  of  Mrs  Naidu's  work  were  only  those 
which  are  arbitrarily  known  as  feminine.  But  this 
poet,  like  Mrs  Browning,  is  faithful  to  her  own 
sensuous  and  passionate  temperament.  She  has  not 
timidly  sheltered  behind  a  convention  which,  be- 
cause some  women-poets  have  been  austere,  pre- 
scribes austerity,  neutral  tones,  and  a  pale  light 
for  the  woman-artist  in  this  sphere.  And,  as  a 
result,  we  have  all  the  evidence  of  a  richly- dowered 
sensibility  responding  frankly  to  the  vivid  light  and 
colour,  the  liberal  contours  and  rich  scents  and  great 
spaces  of  the  world  she  loves  ;  and  responding  no 
less  warmly  and  freely  to  human  instincts.  Occa- 
sionally her  verse  achieves  the  expression  of  sheer 
sensuous  ecstasy.  It  does  that,  perhaps,  in  the  two 
Dance  poems — from  the  very  reason  that  her  art  is 
so  true  and  free.  The  theme  requires  exactly  that 
treatment  ;  and  in  "  Indian  Dancers  "  there  is 
besides  a  curiously  successful  union  between  the 
measure  that  is  employed  and  the  subject  of  the 
poem— 

Their  glittering  garments  of  purple  are  burning  like 

tremulous  dawns  in  the  quivering  air, 
And  exquisite,  subtle  and  slow  are  the  tinkle  and  tread 

of  their  rhythmical,  slumber-soft  feet. 

244 


Sarojint  Naidu 

The  love-songs,  though  in  many  moods,  are  always 
the  frank  expression  of  emotion  that  is  deep  and 
strong.  One  that  is  especially  beautiful  is  the  utter- 
ance of  a  young  girl  who,  while  her  sisters  prepare 
the  rites  for  a  religious  festival,  stands  aside  with 
folded  hands  dreaming  of  her  lover.  She  is  secretly 
asking  herself  what  need  has  she  to  supplicate  the 
gods,  being  blessed  by  love  ;  and  again,  in  the 
couple  of  stanzas  called  "  Ecstasy,"  the  rapture  has 
passed,  by  its  very  intensity,  into  pain. 

Shelter  my  soul,  O  my  love  ! 

My  soul  is  bent  low  with  the  pain 
And  the  burden  of  love,  like  the  grace 

Of  a  flower  that  is  smitten  with  rain  : 
O  shelter  my  soul  from  thy  face  ! 

But,  when  all  is  said,  it  is  the  life  of  her  people 
which  inspires  this  poet  most  perfectly.  In  the 
lighter  lyrics  one  sees  the  fineness  of  her  touch  ;  and 
in  the  love-poems  the  depth  of  her  passion.  But, 
in  the  folk-songs,  all  the  qualities  of  her  genius 
have  contributed.  Grace  and  tenderness  have  been 
reinforced  by  an  observant  eye,  broad  sympathy  and 
a  capacity  for  thought  which  reveals  itself  not  so 
much  as  a  systematic  process  as  an  atmosphere, 
suffusing  the  poems  with  gentle  pensiveness.  And 
always  the  artistic  method  is  that  of  picking  out  the 

245 


Contemporary  'Poets 

theme  in  bright  sharp  lines,  and  presenting  the  idea 
concretely,  through  the  grouping  of  picturesque 
facts.  There  is  a  poem  called  "  Street  Cries  " 
which  is  a  vivid  bit  of  the  life  of  an  Eastern  city. 
First  we  have  early  morning,  when  the  workers 
hurry  out,  fasting,  to  their  toil ;  and  the  cry  '  Buy 
bread,  Buy  bread '  rings  down  the  eager  street  ; 
then  midday,  hot  and  thirsty,  when  the  cry  is  *  Buy 
fruit,  Buy  fruit  '  ;  and  finally,  evening. 

When  twinkling  twilight  o'er  the  gay  bazaars, 
Unfurls  a  sudden  canopy  of  stars, 
When  lutes  are  strung  and  fragrant  torches  lit 
On  white  roof-terraces  where  lovers  sit 
Drinking  together  of  life's  poignant  sweet, 
Buy  flowers,  buy  flowers,  floats  down  the  singing 
street. 

Another  of  these  shining  pictures  will  be  found 
in  "  Nightfall  in  the  City  of  Hyderabad,"  Mrs 
Naidu's  own  city  ;  and  again  in  the  song  called  "  In 
a  Latticed  Balcony."  But  there  are  several  others 
in  which,  added  to  the  suggestion  of  an  old  civiliza- 
tion and  strange  customs,  there  is  a  haunting  sense 
of  things  older  and  stranger  still.  Of  such  is  this 
one,  called  "  Indian  Weavers." 

Weavers,  weaving  at  break  of  day, 

Why  do  you  weave  a  garment  so  gay  ?  .  ,  . 


Sarojini  Naidu 

Blue  as  the  wing  of  a  halcyon  wild, 

We  weave  the  robes  of  a  new-born  child. 


Weavers,  weaving  solemn  and  still, 
Why  do  you  weave  in  the  moonlight  chill  ? 
White  as  a  feather  and  white  as  a  cloud, 
We  weave  a  dead  man's  funeral  shroud. 


247 


John  Presland 

IN  coming  to  the  work  of  John  Presland  there 
is  a  note  of  personal  interest  first.     The  name 
is  a  pseudonym  ;    and  Mrs  Skelton,  the  lady 
whose   identity   it    covered    hitherto,    has    yielded 
at  last  to  importunity  and  has  consented  to  reveal 
her  authorship.     It  is  an  act  so  much  the  more 
gracious  by  reason  of  her  strong  wish  to  remain 
anonymous ;     and   the   writer   of   these   studies   is 
therefore   constrained   to   offer   thanks   publicly  to 
Mrs  Skelton  for  her  indulgence. 

But  if  one  does  not  at  the  same  time  apologize 
for  the  importunity,  that  is  because  the  betrayal  of 
the  secret  serves  the  ends  of  art  and  thought.  One 
did  not  probe  it  out  of  a  vulgar  curiosity,  nor  ask  to 
reveal  it  from  a  petty  wish  to  be  the  first  to  divulge 
an  interesting  literary  fact.  There  were  other 
implications,  as,  for  example,  jealousy  for  the  honour 
of  womanhood.  Now  that  may  not  be,  in  a  simple 
sense,  a  motive  of  the  highest  order,  but  it  is  at 
least  respectable.  In  its  wider  reference,  which  in- 
cludes the  whole  influence  of  women  in  literature, 
it  is  of  high  importance ;  while  for  a  study  of  con- 
temporary poetry  which  observes  in  any  degree  the 
relation  between  the  poet  and  his  time,  the  feminine 
origin  of  this  body  of  work  is  of  primary  interest. 
248 


John    'Presland 

Thus  the  prominent  dramatic  feature  of  John 
Presland's  poetry  does  more  than  arrest  the  eye. 
It  excites  the  mind.  One  is  pricked  by  all  sorts 
of  speculation — on  the  trend  of  contemporary 
poetry  towards  the  dramatic  form  and  the  virility 
which  that  implies ;  on  the  alleged  subjectivity  of 
women  and  the  way  in  which  that  generalization 
is  proved  too  arbitrary  by  the  fine  drama  of  the 
two  ladies  who  called  themselves  Michael  Field, 
by  Margaret  Woods,  and  now  by  John  Presland. 

Out  of  ten  volumes  of  poetry  published  by  this 
poet,  six  are  fully-wrought  plays  and  one  is  a  tragic 
love-story  told  in  duologue.  That  is  a  larger  pro- 
portion of  actual  drama  than  most  of  the  modern 
poets  give  ;  but  the  dramatic  impulse  is  strong  in 
the  work  of  nearly  all  of  them.  It  is  the  clearest 
sign  of  their  vitality,  testifying  as  it  does  to  roots 
which  go  far  down  into  life.  There  are  very  few 
who  are  content  simply  to  sing.  Indeed,  it  hardly 
seems  to  be  a  matter  of  choice,  but  of  an  urgency, 
secret  and  compelling  as  a  natural  instinct,  by 
means  of  which  life  is  commanding  expression  in 
literary  art.  And  in  the  impulse  towards  this 
objective  form  of  art  women  are  seen  to  be  sharing 
fully. 

That  is  not  to  suggest  that  there  is  not  a  true  lyrical 
gift  to  this  generation.  On  the  contrary,  there  are 

249 


Contemporary   'Poets 

so  many  singers  of  lovely  songs  that  one  might 
call  it  an  Age  of  Minstrels,  and  predict  by  analogy 
the  speedy  appearance  of  the  supreme  poet.  So 
long  as  poets  continue  to  be  born  young  we  shall 
not  lack  for  songs ;  and  probably  in  every  age  there 
may  be  one  rare  singer  like  W.  H.  Davies,  for  whom 
destiny  has  conspired.  From  the  tyranny  of  life 
he  has  escaped  into  a  virtual  isolation.  Owing 
allegiance  chiefly  to  Nature,  unspoilt  by  books, 
and  saving  his  spirit  humane  and  merry  and  sweet 
from  the  petty  constraints  of  civilization,  he  carols 
as  lightly  as  a  robin  or  a  thrush.  But  he  is  almost 
a  solitary  exception,  and  may  serve  to  prove  the 
rule  that  the  pure  lyric — some  intimate  emotion 
bubbling  over  into  music — cannot  say  all  that 
demands  to  be  said  when  the  poetic  spirit  is  com- 
pletely in  touch  with-  life. 

Now,  in  all  the  most  vital  of  this  modern  verse, 
poetry  has  come  so  close  to  life  as  to  claim  its 
identity.  It  has  left  the  twilight  of  unreality  and 
stepped  into  clear  day.  It  has  broken  down  the 
exclusiveness  which  penned  it  within  a  prescribed 
circle  of  theme  and  of  language  ;  and  it  has  taken 
hold  upon  the  world,  real  and  entire.  Moreover, 
the  life  upon  which  it  seizes  in  this  way  is  wider, 
more  complex,  more  meaningful  and  varied  than 
ever  before.  Political  and  social  changes  have 
250 


John    ^Presland 

made  humanity  a  larger  thing — whether  regarded 
in  the  actual  numbers  which  democracy  thus 
brings  within  the  poetic  ken,  or  in  their  manifold 
significance.  Horizons,  both  mental  and  material, 
have  been  extended.  Science  presses  on  in  quiet 
confidence,  the  dogmatic  phase  being  over ;  and 
its  methods  as  well  as  its  data  pass  readily  into  the 
collective  mind.  Religion,  no  longer  synonymous 
with  a  single  creed  or  form  of  worship,  can  find 
room  within  itself  for  all  the  spiritual  activity  of 
mankind  everywhere ;  and  in  the  juster  proportion 
thus  attained,  nobler  syntheses  are  shaping.  A 
constructive  social  sense  replaces  the  old  negative 
commands  with  a  positive  duty  of  service.  Values 
are  changing ;  new  ideals  quicken,  struggle  and 
fructify  ;  fresh  aspects  of  life,  and  visions  of  human 
destiny,  are  opened  up  ;  while  in  every  sphere  the 
spirit  of  inquiry  and  the  experimental  method 
generate  an  energy  of  conflict  which  the  timid  and 
the  sleepy  loathe,  but  which  is  nevertheless  the 
dynamic  of  progress. 

The  poetry  of  to-day  is  the  very  spirit  of  that 
multiform  life,  giving  the  eternity  of  art  to  what- 
ever is  finest  in  it ;  and  for  that  reason  its  manner 
of  expression  is  .almost  infinitely  varied,  and  often 
very  different  from  the  poetic  forms  of  other  ages. 
That,  indeed,  is  the  witness  to  its  vitality  :  the  fact 

251 


Contemporary   'Poets 

that  it  is  a  living  organism,  capable  of  adaptation, 
growth  and  development.  Old  forms  are  modified 
and  new  ones  created  to  embody  the  new  ideas. 
All  the  resources  of  prosody  are  drawn  upon — when 
they  will  serve — and  used  with  the  utmost  freedom. 
And  when,  as  frequently  happens,  they  will  not 
serve  ;  when  the  estabKshed  rules  of  English  verse 
seem  inadequate  to  the  present  task,  they  are 
challenged  and  thrown  aside.  Thus  there  arises, 
in  the  technique  of  poetry  itself,  a  corresponding 
conflict  to  that  in  the  world  of  ideas,  indicating  a 
similar  vigour  and  equally  prophetic  of  advance. 

In  all  this  variety,  however,  the  dramatic  element 
is  constant ;  and  it  seems  to  be  growing  stronger. 
Leaving  out  of  account  for  the  moment  the  large 
body  of  actual  drama  produced  by  Michael  Field, 
Mr  Yeats  and  others,  the  element  is  seen  to  be 
present  in  many  poems  which  have  not  the  shape 
of  drama  at  all.  In  the  narratives  of  Mr  Masefield, 
for  example,  it  may  be  found  informing  astonish- 
ingly an  elaborate  stanza  or  the  rhymed  couplet ; 
just  as  the  tragedies  of  Daily  Bread  are  wrought 
out  by  Mr  Gibson  in  a  quite  original  unrhymed 
verse  of  great  austerity.  And  much  of  Mr  Aber- 
crombie's  work  is  dramatic  in  essence,  apart  from 
his  plays  in  regular  form. 

But  there  is  one  fact  to  be  noted  in  coming 
252 


John    ^Presland 

from  those  poets  to  the  drama  of  John  Presland. 
With  them  the  dramatic  impulse  is  often  secondary 
and  subconscious,  and  it  has  to  fight  its  way  against 
a  twin  impulse  towards  lyricism.  It  is  strong  but 
not  yet  dominant ;  vital,  but  not  yet  aware  of 
its  own  potentiality.  It  throbs  below  the  surface 
of  alien  forms,  but  it  rarely  breaks  away  to  an 
independent  existence.  And  even  when  it  achieves 
consciousness,  as  it  does  most  completely  perhaps 
in  the  work  of  Mrs  Woods,  traces  of  the  struggle 
cling  about  it  still — in  a  lyrical  motif,  or  a  fragment 
of  song  embedded  in  the  structure  of  a  play,  or  in 
a  lyric  intensity  of  feeling.  With  John  Presland, 
however,  the  general  tendency  is  reversed.  The 
dramatic  impulse  has  become  a  definite  and  pre- 
vailing purpose,  with  the  lyrical  element  sub- 
ordinated to  it ;  and,  as  a  consequence,  we  have 
here  a  drama  of  full  stature,  a  complete,  organic, 
and  acutely  conscious  art-form. 

This  work  reveals  in  its  author  an  endowment  of 
those  qualities  which  most  insistently  urge  towards 
the  dramatic  form :  imagination,  both  creative 
and  constructive,  and  a  gift  of  almost  absolute 
objectivity.  In  all  the  six  plays  these  qualities  are 
conspicuous.  Indeed,  they  are  so  strong  that  they 
effectually  screen  the  poet's  personality ;  and,  if 
she  had  written  nothing  but  the  plays,  it  is  little 

253 


Contemporary    "Poets 

that  one  might  hope  to  discover  of  the  individual 
mind  behind  them.  That  is  naturally  a  very 
desirable  result  from  the  dramatist's  point  of  view, 
and  one  test  of  his  art.  But  it  pricks  mere  human 
curiosity,  and  provokes  unregenerate  glee  in  the 
fact  that  the  poet  has  published  lyrics  too,  four 
volumes  of  them  ;  and  that  they,  from  their  more 
subjective  nature,  yield  up  the  outlines  of  a  definite 
individuality. 

But,  indeed,  one's  delight  is  not  sheer  mischief. 
It  is  partly  at  least  in  seeing  the  artistic  virtue  of 
this  largesse  in  the  lyric — the  spontaneity  which  is 
equally  a  merit  with  the  reticence  of  drama.  One 
is  glad,  too,  of  the  light  thus  thrown  upon  the 
poet's  own  philosophy,  her  affiliations,  outlook,  and 
attitude  to  life.  Judging  by  the  plays  alone,  we 
might  be  cheated  into  a  belief  in  the  complete 
detachment  of  our  author.  The  use  of  historical 
themes  and  the  rigour  of  art  create  an  effect  of 
isolation.  She  would  seem  to  stand  outside  the 
stress  of  her  own  time  and  aloof  from  the  influences 
which  commonly  shape  the  artist.  The  lyrics  show 
that  impression  to  be  false  and  help  to  correct  it. 
For  while  they  do  not  relate  the  poet,  in  any  narrow 
sense,  to  what  are  specifically  called  '  modern  move- 
ments,' they  prove  that  she  has  an  eager  interest  in 
her  world,  and  that,  being  in  that  world  and  of  it, 
254 


John    T^resland 

she  is  yet  *  on  the  side  of  the  angels.'  There  is,  for 
example,  a  splendid  fire  of  reproach  in  the  poem 
"  To  Italy,"  proving  a  capacity  for  noble  indigna- 
tion as  well  as  a  close  hold  upon  current  affairs. 
The  poem  is  dated  September  29,  1911,  and  is  a 
protest  at  the  action  of  Italy  against  Tripoli ;  and  if 
it  might  have  been  written  yesterday,  and  addressed 
to  D'Annunzio  for  the  tragic  folly  of  his  occupation 
of  Fiume,  that  is  not  because  Italy  alone  among 
nations  has  moments  of  madness : 

Hearken  to  your  dead  heroes,  Italy ; 
Hearken  to  those  who  made  your  history 
A  bright  and  splendid  thing  .  .  . 

.  .  .  What  Mazzini  said 
Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  ?     You,  who  bled 
With  Garibaldi,  and  the  thousand  more  ? 
He  spoke,  and  your  young  men  to  battle  bore 
His  gospel  with  them,  of  men's  brotherhood, 
Of  Justice,  that  before  the  tyrant,  stood 
Accusing,  and  of  truth  and  charity. 
His  dust  to-day  lies  with  you,  Italy ; 
Where  lie  his  words  ?     That  sword  is  in  your  hand 
To  seize  unrighteously  another's  land — 
Your  fleet  in  foreign  waters.     By  what  right 
Dare  you  act  so,  save  arrogance  of  might, 
Such  cruel  force  as  ground  the  Austrian  heel 
Upon  your  Lombard  cities,  ringed  with  steel 
Unhappy  Naples  and  despairing  Rome, 
That  exiled  Garibaldi  from  his  home, 

255 


Contemporary   T^oets 

That  served  itself  with  sycophants  and  knaves, 
That  filled  the  prisons  and  the  nameless  graves, 
Till,  like  a  sunrise  o'er  a  stormy  sea, 
Flashed  out  the  spirit  of  free  Italy  ? 

Like  all  John  Presland's  work,  this  poem  is  closely 
woven  :  quotation  does  not  serve  it  well,  but  this 
passage  will  at  least  indicate  a  theme  and  temper 
which  light  up  personality.  There  is,  in  the  same 
volume,  Songs  of  Changing  Skies,  a  bit  of  spiritual 
autobiography  called  "  To  Robert  Browning."  It 
destroys  at  once  any  fiction  of  literary  isolation  ; 
although  to  be  sure  there  are  cute  critics  who  will 
declare  that  the  resemblance  to  Browning  in  some  of 
these  lyrics  is  too  obvious  to  need  the  discipular 
confession.  It  may  be  that  these  clever  people  are 
right.  Yes,  perhaps  one  would  recognize  certain 
signs  in  poems  like  "  A  Present  from  Luther  "  and 
"  An  Error  of  Luther's."  But  the-  whole  question 
of  influence  is  nearly  always  made  too  much  of, 
especially  in  its  mere  outward  marks.  Granting 
the  love  of  Browning  and  the  debt  to  his  teaching, 
which  are  honourably  acknowledged  here,  some 
effect  upon  thought  and  early  style  would  be  in- 
evitable. But  a  deeper  and  more  potent  cause  of 
the  resemblance  lies  in  a  real  affinity  of  mind,  in 
buoyancy  and  breadth  and  tenacious  belief  in  good  ; 
and  in  a  similar  poetic  equipment.  One  must  not 
256 


John    Tresland 

launch  upon  a  comparison,  but  it  may  be  observed 
that  this  poet  has  profited  by  the  master's  faults, 
artistic  and  philosophical,  at  least  as  much  as  by 
his  merits.  For,  probably  warned  by  example, 
she  works  with  patient  care  to  express  her  thought 
simply ;  and  she  has  attained  a  style  of  perfect 
clearness.  While  her  philosophy,  though  full  of 
brave  hope,  has  escaped  the  unreason  of  that 
optimism  which  declares  that  '  All's  well.'  True, 
she  makes  Joan  say,  in  the  last  words  of  "  Joan 
of  Arc  "  : 

....  so  near  eternity 
The  evil  dwindles,  good  alone  remains, 
And  good  triumphant — God  is  merciful. 

But  that  is  dramatically  appropriate — the  logic  of 
Joan's  character.  And  it  seems  to  me  that  a 
more  intimate  and  sincere  expression  is  to  be 
found  in  the  chastened  mood  of  a  sonnet  called 
"  To  April  "  : 

There  will  be  other  days  as  fair  as  these 

Which  I  shall  never  see ;  for  other  eyes 

The  lyric  loveliness  of  cherry  trees 

Shall  bloom  milk-white  against  the  windy  skies 

And  I  not  praise  them ;  where  upon  the  stream 

The  faery  tracery  of  willows  lies 

I  shall  not  see  the  sunlight's  flying  gleam, 

Nor  watch  the  swallow's  sudden  dip  and  rise 

R  257 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

Most  mutable  the  forms  of  beauty  are, 

Yet  Beauty  most  eternal  and  unchanged, 

Perfect  for  us,  and  for  posterity 

Still  perfect ;  yearly  is  the  pageant  ranged. 

And  dare  we  wish  that  our  poor  dust  should  mar 

The  wonder  of  such  immortality  ? 

The  wistfulness  of  that  wins  by  its  grace  where 
a  more  strenuous  optimism  provokes  a  challenge  ; 
just  as  the  tentative  c  perhaps '  in  the  last  line  of 
"  Sophocles'  Antigone  "  softly  woos  the  sceptic  : 

There  are  fair  flowers  that  never  came  to  fruit ; 
Cut  by  sharp  winds,  or  eaten  by  late  frost, 
Barrenly  in  forgetfulness,  they're  lost 
To  little-heedful  Nature ;  so,  in  suit, 
Beneath  the  footsteps  of  calamity 
Young  lives  and  lovely  innocently  come 
To  total  up  old  evil's  deadly  sum — 
Do  the  gods  pity  dead  Antigone  ? 
We  look  too  close,  we  look  too  close  on  earth 
At  good  and  evil ;  blind  are  Nature's  laws 
That  kill,  or  make  alive,  and  so  are  done. 
Not  in  the  circle  of  this  death  and  birth 
May  we  perceive  a  justifying  cause, 
Beyond,  perhaps,  for  God  and  good  are  one. 

One  must  not  pause  to  gather  up  the  threads  of 
personality  in  these  three  volumes  of  lyrics ;  and, 
with  the  more  important  work  in  drama  still  ahead, 
it  is  only  possible  just  to  glance  at  their  specific 

258 


John    ^Presland 

values.  All  the  pieces  are  not  equally  good,  of 
course,  but  there  is  a  proportion  of  exquisite 
poetry  in  each  volume.  The  proportion  is  probably 
greatest  in  Songs  of  Changing  Skies,  and  of  this 
best  work  there  are  at  least  three  kinds.  There  is 
that  which  one  may  call  the  lyric  proper,  small  in 
size,  simple  in  design,  light  in  texture,  the  free 
expression  of  a  single  mood.  Such  is  "  From  a 
Window,"  in  which  the  peculiar  charm  of  the 
poet's  verse  in  this  kind  is  well  seen.  It  is  not  a 
showy  attractiveness :  it  does  not  storm  the  senses 
nor  clamour  for  approval.  It  enters  the  mind 
quietly,  and  perhaps  with  some  hesitancy ;  but 
having  entered,  it  takes  absolute  possession. 

To-night  I  hear  the  soft  Spring  rain  that  falls 

Across  the  gardens,  in  the  falling  dusk, 

The  Spring  dusk,  very  slow  ; 

And  that  clear,  single-noted  bird  that  calls 

Insistently,  from  somewhere  in  the  gloom 

Of  wet  Spring  leafage,  or  the  scattering  bloom 

Of  one  tall  pear-tree. 

On,  on,  on,  they  go, 

Those  single,  sweet,  reiterated  sounds, 

Having  no  passion,  similarly  free 

Of  laughter,  and  of  memory,  and  of  tears, 

Poignantly  sweet,  across  the  falling  rain, 

They  fall  upon  my  ears. 

The  delicate  rapture  of  that  will  fairly  represent 

259 


Contemporary    "Poets 

much  of  the  nature  poetry  in  these  volumes,  as  well 
as  the  very  individual  Poems  of  London,  published 
in  1918.  It  will  be  seen  that  there  is  a  close  rela- 
tion between  means  and  end ;  that  the  simple 
language,  natural  phrasing  and  controlled  freedom 
of  movement,  directly  subserve  the  final  effect  of 
clear  sweetness.  A  similar  adaptation  will  be  found 
in  verse  which  is  written  in  a  sharply  contrasted 
manner.  In  "  Atlantic  Rollers,"  for  instance,  we 
have  a  bigger  theme,  demanding  by  its  nature  a 
swifter  and  stronger  treatment.  And  surely  the 
wild  energy  and  sound,  the  dazzling  light  and 
colour  of  stormy  breakers  have  been  almost  brought 
within  sight  and  hearing,  in  the  speed  and  vigour 
of  this  poem.  There  is  the  opening  rush,  with  its 
secret  obedience  to  rhythm  ;  there  is  a  choice  of 
words  which  are  themselves  dynamic  ;  the  rapid, 
cumulative  pressure  of  the  verse,  with  epithets  only 
to  help  the  rising  movement  until  the  crest  is 
reached,  at  say  the  tenth  or  twelfth  line ;  and  then 
a  slight  diminution  of  speed  and  force,  as  a  richer 
style  describes  the  breaking  wave. 

Do  you  dare  face  the  wind  now  ?     Such  a  wind, 
Bending  the  hardy  cliff-grass  all  one  way, 
Hurling  the  breakers  in  huge  battle-play 
On  these  old  rocks,  whose  age  leaves  Time  behind, 
— The  whorls  and  rockets  of  the  fiery  mass 

260 


John    T^resland 

Ere  earth  was  earth — shoots  over  them  the  spray 
In  furious  beauty,  then  is  twisted,  wreathed, 
Dispersed,  flung  inland,  beaten  in  our  face, 
Until  we  pant  as  if  we  hardly  breathed 
The  common  air.     See  how  the  billows  race 
Landward  in  white-maned  squadrons  that  are  shot 
With  sparks  of  sunshine. 

Where  they  leap  in  sight 
First,  on  the  clear  horizon,  they  fleck  white 
The  blue  profundity,  then,  as  clouds  shift, 
Are  grey,  and  umber,  and  pale  amethyst ; 
Then,  great  green  ramparts  in  the  bay  uplift, 
Perfect  a  moment,  ere  they  break  and  fall 
In  fierce  white  smother  on  the  rocky  wall. 

The  third  kind  of  lyric  is  perhaps  the  most  inter- 
esting, for  it  points  directly  to  the  poet's  dramatic 
gift.  It  appears  quite  early  in  this  work ;  and 
indeed,  a  striking  example  of  it  is  the  duologue 
which  gives  its  name  to  the  author's  first  book, 
The  Marionettes,  published  in  1907.  It  is  described 
in  the  sub-title  as  "  A  Puppet  Show,"  and  a  defini- 
tion of  its  form  would  probably  be  a  dramatic  lyric. 
"  Outside  Canossa,"  on  the  other  hand,  is  frankly 
narrative  in  form,  and  has  an  historical  theme.  It 
relates  the  famous  episode  of  the  humiliation  of 
the  Emperor  Henry  IV  by  Hildebrand,  and  is  neces- 
sarily concerned  with  material  that  is  static  in 
its  nature.  It  must  define  and  describe  the  scene, 

261 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

announce  the  antecedents  of  the  story,  and  throw 
light  upon  character.  In  spite  of  this,  however, 
the  conception  of  the  poem  is  dramatic ;  and 
certain  vivid  situations  have  been  created.  As 
we  read  we  actually  live  in  this  snow-clothed, 
silent  forest  world  ;  we  stand  inside  the  king's  tent 
as  he  returns  each  evening  from  his  barefoot,  bare- 
headed penance  outside  Hildebrand's  castle  gate ; 
and  we  tremble,  with  the  waiting  courtiers,  at  the 
outraged  pride  in  his  eyes. 

Yesterday, 

Speech  leapt  from  out  the  King,  as  leaps 
A  sword-blade,  dazzling  in  the  sun 
From  out  its  scabbard ;  as  there  leaps 
Fire  from  the  mountain,  ere  it  run 
Destruction-dealing,  far  and  wide. 
"  Rather  as  Satan  damned,  I  say, 
Falling  through  pride,  yet  keeping  pride, 
Than  buy  salvation  at  this  price.  .  .  ." 

To  the  enraged  King  the  Queen  enters  softly, 
carrying  her  little  son  ;  and  though  her  husband 
has  threatened  death  to  any  who  should  approach 
him,  though  he  sits  with  his  unsheathed  dagger 
ready  to  strike,  she  walks  steadily  to  his  side,  places 
the  child  upon  his  knee,  and  goes  slowly  out  without 
a  word. 

Through  the  door 
The  King  has  hurled  the  dagger,  holds 

262 


John    ^Presland 

His  son  against  his  breast,  and  pain 

Contorts  him,  like  a  smitten  oak  ; 

Then  sets  the  child  upon  the  floor, 

And  rises,  and  undoes  the  clasp 

Of  his  great  mantle  (like  a  stain 

Of  blood  it  lies  about  his  feet). 

Next  from  his  head  he  takes  the  crown, 

Holds  it  arm's-length,  and  drops  it  down 

Suddenly,  from  his  loosened  grasp, 

And  for  the  third  time  goes  he  forth, 

Barefooted  as  a  penitent, 

Humble,  and  excommunicate, 

To  stand  all  day  in  falling  snow 

Outside  Canossa's  guarded  gate, 

Till  Hildebrand  shall  mercy  show. 

The  dramatic  sense  is  clearly  operative  there. 
Here  is  an  instinct  which  perceives  the  kinetic 
values  of  things ;  which  seizes  upon  the  true  stuff 
of  drama,  and,  contemplating  a  character,  an  event 
or  a  situation,  feels  it  start  into  life  under  the  touch 
and  sees  it  move  forward  and  rush  to  a  crisis  before 
the  eyes.  In  the  lyrics  this  quality  is  often  merely 
latent ;  but  in  the  plays  it  has  come  to  full  power 
and  has  found  expression  through  its  own  proper 
medium.  It  is,  of  course,  the  originating  impulse 
of  drama  as  well  as  the  force  that  shapes  it ;  and  if 
we  would  take  some  measure  of  this  creative  energy 
in  our  poet,  we  have  only  to  observe  that  six  pub- 

263 


Contemporary    "Poefs 

lished  plays  and  one  unpublished  were  produced  in 
seven  years,  besides  four  volumes  of  lyrics.  The 
first,  Joan  of  Arc,  appeared  in  1909  ;  the  last,  King 
Monmouth,  came  out  in  1916 ;  the  other  four, 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  Manin,  Marcus  Aurelius  and 
Belts arius,  belong  (with  the  lyrics)  to  the  intervening 
years.  Moreover,  these  plays  are  all  fully  developed 
and  of  elaborate  structure.  Being  poetic  and  his- 
torical drama,  perhaps  it  is  natural  that  they  should 
follow  the  Shakespearean  model,  though  their 
dependence  on  tradition  is  a  curious  fact  at  this 
time  of  day.  Joan  oj  Arc  and  Mary  Queen  of  Scots 
are  both  of  five-act  length,  and  the  rest  are  of  four 
acts.  Numerous  characters  are  introduced  and  a 
great  deal  of  material  is  handled  :  incident  is  plenti- 
ful, situations  vary  and  scenes  change  with  some 
frequency ;  while  underplot  and  cross-action  bring 
in  interests  which  are  additional  to,  though  sub- 
serving, the  main  theme. 

Looking  at  the  work  thus,  and  noting  its  mass 
and  general  character,  one  is  constrained  first  to 
pay  a  tribute  to  the  fertility  of  the  genius  from 
which  it  springs,  and  to  the  strength  and  staying 
power  of  the  dramatic  impulse  which  impels  it. 
But  we  soon  find  that  this  is  reinforced  by  other 
remarkable  qualities.  There  is  what  one  may  call 
a  comprehensive  intelligence,  ranging  wide-eyed 
264 


John    'Presland 

over  the  fields  of  history  and  gathering  material  in 
many  places.  There  is  selective  power  in  a  dis- 
criminating choice  from  so  much  diversity ;  and 
a  fine  constructive  gift  patiently  building  up, 
fitting  together,  organizing  and  articulating  the 
form  of  the  work.  Selection  acts  constantly  and 
with  rigour  ;  proportion  is  generally — though  not 
always — true ;  and  a  noble  spirit  and  a  manner  at 
once  gracious  and  dignified  give  the  work  distinction. 
However,  all  that  is  little  more  than  to  say — 
here  is  a  genuine  artist  working  conscientiously  in  a 
given  medium.  It  does  not  go  far  towards  a  rela- 
tive estimate  of  the  work  as  pure  drama.  Only  a 
detailed  ciitical  analysis  could  do  that  adequately ; 
though  one  may  perhaps  try  to  indicate  two  or  three 
of  the  prominent  features  of  the  plays.  Thus  in 
Joan  of  Arc  we  meet  at  once  certain  qualities  which 
become  in  the  later  plays  definitely  characteristic. 
There  is,  for  example,  a  conception  of  the  theme 
which  stresses  the  element  of  spiritual  conflict,  and 
draws  upon  it  for  dramatic  inspiration.  That  is 
a  primary  fact  in  all  this  work ;  and  in  four  of  the 
five  plays  it  is  implied  in  the  very  name  of  the 
protagonist,  jfoan,  Manin,  Marcus  Aurelius  and 
Belisarius  are  synonyms  for  the  purest  spirituality 
of  which  human  nature  is  capable.  They  suggest, 
before  a  page  of  this  poetry  has  been  turned,  that 

265 


Contemporary    "Poets 

the  conflict  out  of  which  drama  always  springs  is 
in  this  case  largely  a  matter  of  invisible  forces — of 
principles  and  ideas.  And  they  point  to  a  type  of 
dramatic  art  which,  trending  to  fine  issues,  deals 
inevitably  in  quiet  effects. 

There  is,  in  fact,  in  the  extreme  grandeur  of 
these  four  characters,  a  possible  source  of  weakness 
to  the  plays,  as  actual  drama.  There  is  a  danger 
that  Joan  may  be  too  good  a  Christian,  Marcus 
Aurelius  too  austere  a  stoic,  Manin  or  Belisarius 
too  absolute  an  idealist,  to  put  up  a  strenuous  fight 
against  destiny.  It  is  a  criticism  which  does  not 
hold  against  the  latest  play,  King  Monmoutb,  just 
because  of  the  mixed  elements  of  Monmouth's  char- 
acter ;  but  in  the  final  impression  of  the  earlier  plays 
one  is  aware  of  a  vague  touch  of  regret  that  the  pro- 
tagonist is  not  a  better  fighter  ;  and  although  that 
may  arise  from  one's  own  pugnacity,  one  suspects 
the  existence  of  a  good  many  other  imperfect 
humans  who  will  share  it.  From  which  it  may  be 
inferred  that  the  weakness  inherent  in  the  subject 
has  not  been  entirely  overcome.  I  doubt  whether 
it  would  be  possible  to  overcome  it  altogether  ; 
and  by  the  same  token  I  salute  the  power  which  has 
evoked  profoundly  moving  and  stimulating  drama 
out  of  themes  like  these. 

Nevertheless,  the  poet  knows  well  how  to  use 
266 


John    IPresland 

the  human  elements  of  a  story  to  make  the  stirring 
scenes  through  which  the  spiritual  crisis  is  reached. 
Thus  Joan,  in  the  fundamental  struggle  of  her  soul 
for  the  soul  of  France,  is  brought  into  external 
conflict  which  fills  out  the  plot  with  incident.  It 
belongs,  of  course,  to  the  historical  setting  of  her 
life,  that  that  conflict  is  one  of  actual  warfare  ; 
but  we  are  bound  to  admire  the  art  which  has 
placed  her  as  the  central  figure  of  those  warring 
factions — the  invading  English,  the  army  of  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy,  the  Church,  and  Charles  the 
Dauphin.  Out  of  that  come  the  events  through 
which  the  action  proceeds  and  by  which  the  in- 
comparable beauty  of  her  character  is  revealed. 

It  is  the  struggle  of  Joan's  enthusiasm  with  the 
apathy  and  indolence  of  Charles  which  gives  rise 
to  one  of  the  finest  scenes  in  the  play.  It  occurs 
in  Act  I,  the  whole  of  which  is  skilfully  designed  to 
set  the  action  moving,  while  indicating  so  much  of 
the  political  situation  as  ought  to  be  known,  and 
the  weakness  in  Charles'  character  which  is  the 
ultimate  cause  of  John's  downfall.  A  premonitory 
note  is  struck  in  the  opening  dialogue.  A  little 
story  is  told  by  la  Tremoille,  who  is  Joan's  chief 
enemy,  of  how  he  had  just  whipped  a  ragged 
prophet  in  the  street  and  caused  him  to  be  stoned. 
It  has  a  double  purpose — to  introduce  Joan,  the 

267 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

prophetess  of  Domremy,  as  the  subject  of  con- 
versation ;  and,  by  reminding  us  of  her  own  end, 
to  awaken  the  sense  of  tragic  irony  through  which 
we  shall  view  the  subsequent  action.  The  talk 
turns  to  Joan,  who  is  awaiting  audience  ;  and  la 
Tremoille  proposes  the  trick  of  the  disguise.  Charles 
agrees  to  it,  and  goes  out  to  put  on  the  dress  of  a 
courtier,  while  his  absence  is  filled  out  by  a  lively 
dialogue  which  glances  lightly  from  point  to  point 
of  court  life.  When  Charles  and  his  train  re-enter 
and  Joan  is  brought  in,  the  scene  rises  strongly  to 
its  climax.  Joan  recognizes  the  Dauphin  through 
his  disguise  and  announces  her  divine  mission — 

I  do  declare  to  you 

That  I,  no  other, — neither  duke,  nor  prince, 
Nor  captain, — no,  nor  learned  gentlemen, 
But  I  alone,  a  girl  of  Domremy, — 
Am  sent  to  save  you. 

By  means  of  a  flexible  blank-verse,  plain  diction, 
and  free  and  nervous  phrasing,  dialogue  runs  with 
an  easy  vigour.  It  is  fired  by  strong  and  quickly 
changing  emotion — the  incredulity  of  Charles,  the 
base  hostility  of  la  Tremoille,  the  indignation  of 
Joan's  friends,  or  the  amazement  and  curiosity  of 
the  courtiers.  But  for  the  most  part  it  remains 
strictly  dramatic  poetry ;  that  is  to  say,  raised  by 
268 


John    'Presland 

several  degrees  above  the  level  of  prose,  yet  closely 
fitted  to  personality.  When,  however,  Joan  begins 
to  tell  about  her  life,  her  quiet  country  home,  and 
the  divine  command  which  bade  her  save  her 
country,  the  note  deepens.  The  verse  becomes 
lyrical,  burning  with  the  mystical  passion  which 
possesses  her — a  flame,  like  the  grand  simplicity  of 
her  own  nature,  white  and  intensely  clear. 

JOAN.     Sire,  it  was  in  the  spring  ;  one  afternoon 
When  I  was  in  a  meadow  all  alone, 
Lying  among  the  grasses  (over  head 
The  scurrying  clouds  were  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 
Chased  by  a  sheep-dog) ;  then,  all  suddenly, 
I  heard  a  voice — nay,  heard  I  cannot  say, 
There  ivas  a  voice  took  hold  upon  my  sense, 
As  if  it  swallowed  up  all  other  sounds 
In  all  the  world ;  the  birds,  the  sheep,  the  bees, 
The  sound  of  children  calling  far  away, 
The  rustling  of  the  rushes  in  the  stream, 
Were  only  like  the  cloth,  whereon  appears 
The  gold  embroidery,  the  voice  of  God. 

ARCHBISHOP.     Did  you  see  aught  ? 

JOAN.  Yea,  see  !     Our  earthly  words 

Cannot  express  divinity,  but  like 
Small  vessels  over-filled  with  generous  wine, 
They  leave  the  surplus  wasted.     If  I  say, 
I  saw,  or  heard,  that  seems  to  leave  untouched 
The  other  senses  ;  but  indeed,  my  lords, 
All  of  my  body  seemed  transformed  to  soul. 

269 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

So  I  should  say  I  saiv  the  voice  of  God, 
And  heard  the  light  effulgent  all  around, 
Nay,  heard,  and  saw,  and  felt  through  all  of  me 
The  radiance  of  the  message  of  the  Lord. 

Passages  like  that  bring  home  to  us  the  poetical 
character  of  this  drama.  True,  they  may  remind 
us  that  in  such  a  form  of  the  art  action  is  bound 
to  lag  sometimes  :  that  its  movement  is  apt  to  be 
impeded,  as  toward  the  end  of  Joan  of  Arc,  by 
lyrical  speeches.  On  the  other  hand,  they  emphasize 
the  peculiar  virtue  of  this  kind  of  drama ;  the 
twofold  nature  of  its  appeal,  and  the  fact  that  the 
two  elements  are  often  found  concentrated  at  their 
highest  degree  in  single  scenes  of  great  power. 
With  genius  of  this  type  (if  genius  may  be  classified 
in  types !),  when  the  dramatic  imagination  is  most 
vividly  alight,  it  will  inevitably  kindle  poetry  of 
the  finest  kind. 

Thus,  in  the  last  act  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  we  get 
the  force  of  the  whole  drama,  and  all  the  incidence 
of  the  directly  preceding  scene  moving  behind  and 
through  the  Emperor's  speech  from  which  I  shall 
quote.  The  play  has  shown  the  complicity  of 
Faustina  in  the  plot  to  depose  her  husband  :  we 
know  that  she  is  a  wanton  and  a  traitress.  But 
Marcus  is  ignorant  of  the  truth,  and  generously 
unsuspecting.  After  the  death  of  Cassius,  the  chief 
270 


John    T^resland 

conspirator,  Marcus  orders  an  officer  to  bring  all 
the  dead  man's  papers  to  him.  It  is  necessary  to 
examine  them  for  the  names  of  accomplices.  They 
are  brought  in  while  he  is  chatting  with  Faustina  ; 
and  she  knows  that  they  contain  certain  incrimi- 
nating letters  that  she  had  written.  Exposure  is 
imminent — disgrace  and  probable  death  for  her 
await  the  opening  of  the  letters.  She  tries  every 
ruse  that  a  bold  and  cunning  mentality  can  suggest 
to  prevent  her  husband  from  reading  them.  She 
seems  about  to  succeed,  but  her  insistence  faintly 
warning  Marcus,  she  fails  after  all.  He  takes  up 
the  package  and  goes  away  to  open  it  quietly  in  his 
tent,  and  Faustina,  believing  that  in  a  few  minutes 
he  will  know  all  her  treachery,  drinks  poison  and 
dies.  Unconscious  of  this  catastrophe,  the  Emperor 
is  sitting  alone  in  his  tent,  with  the  package  of 
letters  on  a  table  before  him. 

....  Here,  beneath  my  hand, 
Are  laid  the  hidden  hearts  of  many  men. 
What  shall  I  read  therein  ?     Ingratitude, 
Lies,  envy,  spite,  the  barbed  and  venomous  word 
Of  those  that  called  me  Emperor,  I  called  friend ; 

.  .  .   Break  the  seal,  and  read 
Which  of  our  subjects,  of  our  intimates, 
Our  friends  of  many  years,  are  netted  here. 
How  thickly  fall  the  shadows  in  the  tent ! 
Almost  I  fancied,  with  my  tired  eyes, 

271 


Contemporary    T^oets 

I  saw  Faustina  there  .  .  .  Faustina,  you  ! 

If  I  should  find 

Her  name  among  the  friends  of  Cassius  ? 
Ah  no,  Faustina,  not  such  perfidy  ! 
The  gods  must  blush  at  it !     Am  I  grown  grey 
And  learnt  no  wisdom  ?     Though  it  should  be  so — 
Though  yet  it  cannot  be — what's  that  to  me  ? 
Am  /  wronged  by  it  ?     Yet  it  cannot  be, 
With  that  frank  brow.     I've  loved  you  faithfully ; 
It  could  not  be  so.  ... 

...  I  will  not  know 
More  than  I  must  of  unprofitable  things, 
Lest  they  should,  in  the  garden  of  my  soul, 
Nourish  rank  weeds  of  hate  and  bitterness ; 
I  will  not  hate  that  which  I  cannot  change. 

(He  drops  the  papers  into  a  tripod.} 
Burn  !     Go  into  oblivion  !     The  gods 
Permit  themselves  to  pity  good  and  bad, 
Giving  to  each  the  sunshine  and  sweet  rain, 
And  hiding  all  things  in  the  mist  of  years. 
May  I  not  do  as  gods  do  ?  Burn  away, 
Consume  all  hate  and  evil  into  smoke ! 
I  will  not  know  of  them  ;  assuredly 
For  me  such  ills  exist  not 

(The  body  of  Faustina  is  brought  in.) 

The  same  combination  of  dramatic  elements  wil 
be  found  in  the  crucial  scenes  of  Manin  and  Beli 
sarius.  In  Manin  it  is  especially  notable,  becaus< 
of  the  curious  nature  of  the  crisis.  This  woulc 
272 


John    T^resland 

seem,  on  the  face  of  it,  almost  calculated  to  inhibit 
the  dramatic  impulse  :  to  tend  to  negative  the 
dynamic  properties  of  character  and  circumstance. 
Manin,  the  defender  of  Venice,  has  held  his  city 
against  the  Austrian  enemy  by  sheer  force  of  char- 
acter. His  courage  and  confidence  and  determina- 
tion have  heartened  the  Venetians  to  continue 
their  resistance  ;  and  his  statesmanship  has  been 
diligent  in  trying  to  secure  the  intervention  of 
France  or  England,  or  military  aid  from  Kossuth. 
But  help  is  refused  from  every  quarter  ;  the  garrison 
is  small  and  weak  ;  the  people  are  starving,  and 
ravaged  by  disease.  Nevertheless,  inspired  by  their 
leader,  they  are  willing  and  eager  to  resist  to  the 
end,  although  they  know  that  this  must  bring  on 
them  the  hideous  penalties  with  which  the  Austrians 
notoriously  punished  that  kind  of  patriotism. 

The  crux  of  the  drama  lies  in  the  problem  thus 
presented  to  Manin.  It  is  essentially  a  spiritual 
struggle  :  between  wisdom  on  the  one  hand  and 
patriotic  ardour  on  the  other  ;  between  foresight 
and  courage  ;  between  the  long,  weary,  unattractive 
processes  that  make  for  life  and  the  blind  impetuosity 
that  makes  for  death ;  between,  in  his  personal 
career,  a  prospect  of  humiliation  in  exile  and  the 
glory  of  a  hero's  end.  Given  the  character  of 
Manin,  victory  in  the  conflict  was  bound  to  lie 

s  273 


Contemporary    'Poets 

with  reason  against  passion,  with  sagacity  against 
recklessness  ;  but  the  victory  in  this  case  meant 
defeat — physical  and  apparently  moral.  It  would 
mean  to  the  world,  and  even  to  his  own  people, 
that,  with  the  surrender  of  the  town,  he  yielded 
up  the  very  principles  for  which  he  stood.  Therein, 
of  course,  lies  the  unusual  nature  of  this  crisis. 
The  dramatic  instinct  has  somehow  to  vitalize  a 
dead  weight  of  failure.  To  see  how  that  is  done — 
and  it  is  done,  finely — one  must  turn  to  the  scene 
in  Act  III,  which  is  the  core  of  the  play.  There 
the  poet  creates  an  external  conflict  between 
Manin  and  the  people  which  embodies,  as  it 
were,  the  spiritual  struggle ;  •  and,  translating  it 
into  action,  visibly  reveals  Manin  as  a  conqueror. 
Quotations  hardly  do  justice  to  the  poet  here, 
but  there  are  two  speeches,  one  before  and  one 
after  Manin  has  won  the  people  to  the  proposed 
surrender,  which  indicate  the  skill  of  the  art  at 
this  point. 

The  first  expresses  the  agony  of  failure  in  Manin's 
mind,  resulting  from  his  decision  to  yield  to  the 
enemy.  It  is  in  answer  to  his  faithful  friend  and 
secretary,  Pezzato,  who  has  been  trying  to  comfort 
him  with  a  prediction  that  the  freedom  of  their 
city  and  their  land  is  only  deferred,  that  it  must 
ultimately  come.  Manin  replies : 
274 


John    ^Presland 

I  shall  not  see  it. 

I  shall  be  blind  beneath  my  coffin  lid 
There  in  a  foreign  land  ;  I  shall  not  see 
The  glory  and  the  splendour  of  St.  Mark's 
When  our  Italian  flag  salutes  the  sun ; 
I  shall  be  deaf,  and  never  hear  the  peal 
Of  our  triumphant  bells,  and  volleying  guns  ; 
I  shall  be  dumb,  I  shall  be  dumb  that  day, 
And  never  say,  "  My  people,  for  this  hour 
I  saved  you  when  I  sacrificed  you  most." 

The  second  passage  burns  with  the  fire  of  triumph, 
tragical  but  prophetic,  which  has  been  kindled  in 
Manin  by  his  struggle  with  the  opposing  will  of 
the  people  and  his  victory  over  it : 

Of  this  one  thing  be  sure.     A  little  time, 

A  little  hour,  in  the  span  of  years 

That  history  devours,  we  submit 

To  bow  before  the  flail  of  tyranny  ; 

Ay,  it  may  strike  us  down,  and  we  may  die 

With  Europe  passive  round,  our  Calvary ; 

Yet  that  for  which  we  stand,  for  liberty, 

For  equal  justice,  and  the  right  of  laws 

Purely  administered,  can  never  die, 

Being  of  the  nature  of  eternity  ; 

Nor  all  the  blood  that  Austria  has  shed 

Mar  the  indelibility  of  truth  ; 

Nor  all  the  graves  that  Austria  has  dug 

Bury  it  deep  enough ;  nor  all  the  lies 

That  coward  hearts  have  bandied  to  and  fro, 

And  coward  hearts  received  to  trick  themselves, 

Smother  the  face  of  it. 

275 


Contemporary    'Poets 

There  remains  to  be  particularly  noted  the  poet's 
gift  of  realizing  character.  It  is  seen  at  its  best  in 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  where  the  unhappy  Queen 
is  very  strikingly  re-created.  Out  of  the  diverse 
and  stormy  elements  of  her  nature  she  is  made  to 
live  again  with  a  complex  unity  and  completeness 
which  are  amazing.  That  is  largely  the  reason 
why  this  play  is  the  most  powerful  of  the  six,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  pure  drama,  Its  theme  is 
unerringly  chosen,  for  drama  inheres  in  Mary's 
being.  The  seeds  of  tragedy  lurk  in  her  con- 
trasted weakness  and  strength,  excess  and  defect, 
nobility  and  baseness.  And,  because  she  has  been 
so  brilliantly  studied,  this  play  moves  at  every  step 
to  the  majestic  truth  that  character  is  destiny. 

The  broad  lines  of  Mary's  personality  are  estab- 
lished in  the  first  act,  revealing  at  once  the  springs 
of  action.  The  sensuous  basis  of  her  nature,  her 
strong  will  and  quick  temper,  may  be  seen  to  set 
in  motion  the  forces  which  will  presently  over- 
whelm her.  Her  widowed  state  is  irksome — there- 
fore she  will  marry.  She  hates  authority — therefore 
she  will  make  her  own  choice  in  the  matter  of  a 
husband.  And  finer  threads  already  begin  to  com- 
plicate the  issues.  She  is  really  fond  of  Darnley, 
but  that  motive  is  intricately  mixed  with  the 
sat  sf  action  of  insulting  Elizabeth  through  him ; 
276 


John    'Presland 

while  her  ready  wit  gives  a  spice  to  her  malice 
which,  in  dialogue  at  least,  is  very  refreshing. 
When  she  enters  the  audience-chamber  she  calls 
Darnley  to  her  side  and,  with  a  gesture  towards 
the  gloomy  faces  of  the  disaffected  nobles,  says  in 

merry  mockery  : 

....  look  you  there 

On  these  good  gentlemen,  all  friends  of  ours, 
The  earls  of  Morton,  Ruthven,  and  Argyll : 
For  friends  they  are — upon  their  countenance 
We  see  it  written. 

She  turns  to  the  English  ambassador  : 

.  .  .  Here's  Sir  Nicholas. 

What  news  of  our  dear  cousin  ?     Has  she  come 
At  last  to  give  that  virgin  heart  away 
Into  another's  keeping,  that  brave  Archduke, 
Who'd  bite  your  hand,  they  say,  as  soon  as  kiss  it — 
Such  manners  are  in  Austria — or  Charles, 
My  dear  French  brother,  who  is  well  enough, 
And  only  fourteen  years  her  junior? 
Not  yet  the  happy  moment  ?     Patience,  then, 
Another  day  you'll  have  that  news  for  us. 

Sir  Nicholas  states  formally  Elizabeth's  objections 
to  Darnley,  who  interjects  : 

By  my  beard  ! 
MARY.  No !     No  ! 

Not  by  your  beard,  dear  Henry,  or  your  oath 

Is  emptier  than  a  prince's  promises — 

277 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

Some  princes  we  have  heard  of,  we  would  say, 
Though  cannot  think  it  truth.     Nay,  let  me  hear 
What  is  it  that  my  sister  Princess  wills 
Out  of  the  largeness  of  her  heart  for  me  ? 

The  complexity  of  Mary's  character  is  well 
brought  out.  There  is,  for  instance,  the  little 
scene  with  Mary  Beaton  at  the  beginning  of  Act 
II.  Here  the  Queen,  discovering  Darnley's  in- 
fidelity, passes  rapidly  through  half  a  dozen  moods 
— from  satirical  bitterness  to  a  fury  of  pride,  and 
then  to  tears  in  which  humiliation,  gratitude,  and 
tenderness  are  mingled.  Mary  Beaton  has  just 
said  that  the  people  pity  their  Queen  : 

MARY.  ....  On  my  life, 

I'll  not  be  pitied  :  pity  is  a  chafe 
On  open  wounds  of  pride.     To  pity  me 
Makes  me  a  beggar — dare  you  pity  me  ? 

BEATON.     Sweet  lady,  I  would  not,  but  must  perforce  ! 

MARY.     Nay,  would  you  have  me  weep  ?     What  thing 

am  I 

That  three  soft  words  should  drive  the  tear  drops  forth 
Like  floods  in  winter  ?     Nay,  nay,  good  my  girl, 
This  is  my  body's  weakness,  not  my  soul's. 

The  gentleness  of  that  gives  place  at  the  entrance 
of  Darnley  to  intense  scorn,  changing  to  indignation 
when  he  compels  her  to  answer  him,  and  to  provo- 
cative coquetry  at  his  insult  to  Rizzio.  But  the 

278 


John    'Presland 

finest  achievement  of  this  portrayal  is  that  which 
shows  the  Queen  conscious  of  her  infatuation  for 
Both  well,  and  perceiving  the  tragedy  which  it  is 
preparing,  yet  incapable  of  stemming  the  flood 
that  is  carrying  her  away.  Intelligence  remains 
acute  :  reason  holds  as  clear  a  light  to  consequence 
as  ever  it  did,  but  both  are  ineffectual  against  the 
storm  of  instinct.  Here  is  a  passage  from  the  end 
of  Act  III  in  which  Bothwell  after  a  rebuff  has 
protested  his  love  for  the  Queen  : 

MARY.     Nay,  swear  not ;  nay,  I  know  you  what  you  are — 
Hotter  than  flame  in  your  desires  ;  false — 
Falser  than  water. 

BOTHWELL  (embracing  her).     Be  a  salamander, 
To  live  for  ever  in  the  midst  of  fire. 

MARY.     Oh,  Bothwell !     Oh,  my  love  !     I  am  bewitched 
To  love  you  so.     You  are  a  deadly  poison 
That's  crept  through  all  my  veins ;  you  are  the 

North, 

And  I  the  needle ;  I  must  turn  to  you 
.From  every  quarter  of  the  hemispheres. 
...  I  am  yours 

Utterly,  wholly ;  when  I  walk  abroad, 
Jewelled  and  brocaded,  I  feel  all  men's  eyes 
Can  see  me  naked,  and,  from  head  to  foot, 
Branded  in  red-hot  letters  with  your  name. 

BOTHWELL.     This  is  indeed  love  ! 

MARY.  You  may  call  it  so ! 

It  is  not  that  which  most  men  mean  by  love — 

279 


Contemporary    'Poets 

A  moment's  idle  fancy.     No,  this  love 

Is  like  a  dragon,  laying  waste  the  land 

Of  all  my  life ;  it  is  a  deadly  sickness, 

Of  which  we  both  shall  die ;  it  is  a  sin, 

Of  which  we  both  are  damned,  the  saints  of  God 

Not  finding  mercy  ;  there's  no  pleasure  in  it, 

But  dust  in  the  mouth  and  saltness  in  the  eyes. 

One  would  like  to  indicate  further  the  truth 
with  which  the  character  is  studied  through  the 
last  two  acts,  providing  the  material  as  it  does 
for  scenes  of  great  power  and  range  of  effect. 
Particularly  one  would  wish  to  convey  some  idea 
of  the  final  tragedy,  broadly  conceived  against  a 
background  of  the  angry  Edinburgh  populace,  and 
throbbing  with  the  defiance  of  the  Queen.  Psycho- 
logical imagination  here  is  no  less  than  brilliant, 
and  one  could  cull  perhaps  half  a  dozen  passages 
to  illustrate  it.  But  a  single  extract  must  suffice  ; 
and  that  is  chosen  for  the  additional  reason  that 
its  closing  sentences  contain  the  very  root  of  the 
tragedy.  It  is  from  Act  IV,  and  the  scene,  follow- 
ing upon  Mary's  marriage  to  Bothwell,  is  designed 
to  show  her  last  desperate  struggle  against  him 
and  against  herself.  Already  she  is  remorseful, 
disillusioned,  and  bitter  ;  she  knows  the  marriage 
to  be  hateful  to  her  people,  and  she  has  found 
Bothwell  cruel  and  treacherous.  Before  the  nobles, 
280 


John    T^resland 

who  are  assembled  to  receive  them,  she  taunts 
Bothwell  that  he  is  not  royal ;  flouts  him  for 
Arthur  Erskine  ;  declares  that  she  will  never  wear 
jewels  again  ;  and  at  last  provokes  from  Bothwell 
angry  abuse  and  threats  of  violence.  The  nobles 
interpose  to  protect  her,  and  beg  her  to  let  them 
save  her  from  him.  It  needs  but  one  word  of 
assent  to  be  rid  of  him  for  ever.  She  is  almost  won  ; 
she  takes  a  few  steps  towards  them,  and  actually 
gives  her  hand  to  one  of  them.  Then  she  hesitates, 
turns,  and  looks  at  her  husband  : 

MARY.     I  am  yours,  Bothwell. 

BOTHWELL.  Will  you  go  with  me  ? 

MARY.     Ay,  to  the  world's  end,  in  my  petticoat. 

BOTHWELL.     Let  go  her  hands,  my  lord. 

MORTON.  Ay,  let  them  go, 

And  let  her  go,  for  naught  can  save  her  now. 
Not  ours  the  fault. 

MARY.  Not  yours,  nor  his,  nor  mine. 

'Tis  not  the  fault  of  floods  to  drown,  nor  fire 
To  burn  and  shrivel — no,  nor  beasts  to  bite, 
Nor  frosts  to  kill  the  flowers — not  the  fault, 
Only  the  property.     There's  something  here 
That's  stronger  than  our  wishes  and  our  wills. 
There  is  no  going  back ;  our  course  is  laid, 
And  we  must  keep  it,  though  it  lead  to  death. 
Good-bye,  my  lords.     My  husband,  let  us  go. 


28l 


James  Stephens 

ONE  does  not  put  a  poet  like  Mr  Stephens 
into  a  group — it  cannot  be  done.  If  you 
try  to  do  it,  weakly  yielding  a  wise  in- 
stinct to  mere  intelligence,  one  of  two  things  will 
happen.  You  will  return  to  your  careful  group  the 
moment  after  you  thought  you  had  made  it,  to 
find  either  that  Mr  Stephens  has  vanished  or  that 
the  others  have.  Either  he  has  broken  away  from 
the  ridiculous  frail  links  which  bound  him,  and  is 
already  disappearing  on  the  horizon  with  a  gleeful 
shout,  or  his  unfortunate  companions  have  vanished 
before  so  much  exuberance. 

That  is  why  this  poet  was  not  included  in  the 
Irish  chapter  where,  if  the  thing  were  possible  at 
all,  one  would  have  hoped  to  catch  him.  There 
are  racial  strands  out  of  which  you  would  think 
a  net  could  be  woven  ;  and  they  appear  to  enmesh 
an  Irishman  and  an  Irish  poet.  We  think  we 
recognize  that  eye,  critical  and  appreciative,  for  a 
woman — or  a  horse.  We  believe  we  know  that 
wit,  with  a  touch  of  satire  and  another  touch  of 
merry  malice.  We  are  surely  not  mistaken  in  that 
adoration  of  beauty  and  its  converse  hatred  of  ugli- 
ness ;  while  we  have  no  doubt  whatever  about  that 
passion  for  liberty. 
282 


James  Stephens 

But  the  true  poet  will  transcend  his  nation,  as  he 
does  his  manhood,  at  times  of  purest  inspiration ; 
and  Mr  Stephens  has  those  happy  seasons — happy, 
surely,  for  those  to  whom  he  sings,  though,  doubt- 
less, each  with  its  own  agony  to  him.  In  many  of 
the  slighter  poems,  however,  all  of  them  good  and 
most  of  them  quite  beautiful,  the  signs  of  nationality 
are  obvious.  They  are  comically  clear,  in  fact, 
proceeding  as  they  do  directly  from  the  quick,  keen 
perception  of  the  Comic  Spirit  itself.  Only  a 
blessed  simpleton  whose  name  was  Patsy,  could  see 
the  angel  who  walks  along  the  sky  sowing  the  poppy- 
seed.  The  word  c  Sootherer  '  sounds  like  English  ; 
and  indeed  individuals  of  the  species  are  not  un- 
known in  this  country.  But  they,  like  the  word, 
are  native  to  the  land  of  the  born  lover.  Has  any- 
body heard  of  a  Saxon  who  could  fit  names  like  these 
to  his  sweetheart — Little  Joy,  Sweet  Laughter,  Shy 
Little  Gay  Sprite  ?  or  who  could  woo  her  with 
such  a  ripple  of  flattery — 

.  .  .  You  are  more  sweetly  new 
Than  a  May  moon  :  you  are  my  store, 
My  secret  and  my  treasure  and  the  pulse 
Of  my  heart's  core. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  no  mere  English  boy  could 
hope  to  match  the  glib  rage  of  spite  in  this  disap- 
pointed youth — 

283 


Contemporary   'Poets 

You'll  go — then  listen,  you  are  just  a  pig, 
A  little  wrinkled  pig  out  of  a  sty  ; 
Your  legs  are  crooked  and  your  nose  is  big, 
You've  got  no  calves,  you  have  a  silly  eye, 
I  don't  know  why  I  stopped  to  talk  to  you, 
I  hope  you'll  die. 

Again,  no  Jack  Robinson,  though  the  dull  smother 
that  he  would  call  his  imagination  were  fired  by 
plentiful  beer,  could  ever  have  conceived  of  "  What 
Tomas  an  Buile  Said  in  a  Pub  "  ;  or  could  have 
accompanied  Mac  Dhoul  on  his  impish  adventure 
into  heaven,  to  be  twitched  off  God's  throne  by 
a  hand  as  large  as  a  sky,  and  sent  spinning  through 
the  planets — 

Scraping  old  moons  and  twisting  heels  and  head 
A  chuckle  in  the  void.  .  .  . 

These  outward  marks  are  unmistakable  ;  and  so, 
too,  are  certain  qualities  in  the  essence  and  texture 
of  the  work.  His  lyric  moods  may  be  as  tender 
and  fanciful,  though  always  more  spontaneous,  than 
those  of  Mr  Yeats.  And  one  may  find  the  arrowy 
truth,  the  rich  earthiness  and  the  profound  sense  of 
tragedy  of  a  Synge.  But  the  filmy  threads  which 
seem  to  stretch  between  Mr  Stephens  and  his 
compatriots  have  no  strength  to  bind  him.  They 
are,  indeed,  only  visible  when  he  is  ranging  at 
some  altitude  that  is  lower  than  his  highest  reach. 
284 


James  Stephens 

When  he  soars  to  the  zenith,  as  in  "  The  Lonely 
God  "  and  "  A  Prelude  and  a  Song,"  their  tenuity 
snaps.  He  has  gone  beyond  what  is  merely  national 
and  simply  human  ;  and  has  become  just  a  Voice  for 
the  Spirit  of  Poetry. 

Nevertheless  the  affinities  of  this  poet  with  what 
is  best  in  modern  Irish  literature  would  make  a  fas- 
cinating study.  Foremost,  of  course,  there  is  imagina- 
tion. You  will  find  in  him  the  true  Hibernian 
blend  of  grotesquerie  and  grandeur,  pure  fantasy 
and  shining  vision.  But  each  of  these  things  is 
here  raised  to  a  power  which  makes  it  notable  in 
itself,  while  all  of  them  may  sometimes  be  found 
in  astonishing  combination  in  a  single  poem.  In 
the  book  called  Insurrections,  which  is  dated  1909, 
and  appears  to  represent  Mr  Stephens'  earliest 
efforts  in  verse,  there  is  the  piece  which  I  have 
already  named,  "  What  Tomas  an  Buile  Said  in  a 
Pub."  Already  we  may  see  this  complex  quality  at 
work.  Tomas  is  protesting  that  he  saw  God  ;  and 
that  God  was  angry  with  the  world. 

His  beard  swung  on  a  wind  far  out  of  sight 
Behind  the  world's  curve,  and  there  was  light 
Most  fearful  from  His  forehead  .  .  • 

He  lifted  up  His  hand — 

I  say  He  heaved  a  dreadful  hand 

285 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

Over  the  spinning  Earth,  then  I  said  "  Stay, 
You  must  not  strike  it,  God  ;   I'm  in  the  way  ; 
And  I  will  never  move  from  where  I  stand." 
He  said  "  Dear  child,  I  feared  that  you  were  dead," 
And  stayed  His  hand. 

You  will  see — a  significant  fact — that  there  is  no 
nonsense  about  a  dream  or  a  transcendent  waking 
apparition.  In  the  opening  lines  Tomas  says,  with 
anxious  emphasis,  that  he  saw  the  '  Almighty  Man ' 
— and  that  is  symbolical.  It  has  its  relation  to  the 
mellow  tenderness  with  which  the  poem  closes ;  but 
apart  from  that  it  is  a  sign  of  the  way  in  which  the 
creative  energy  always  works  in  this  poetry.  It 
seizes  upon  concrete  stuff ;  and  that  is  fused,  ham- 
mered and  moulded  into  shapes  so  sharp  and  clear 
that  we  feel  we  could  actually  touch  them  as  they 
spring  up  in  our  mental  vision.  This  is  not  peculiar 
to  Mr  Stephens,  of  course.  It  would  seem  to  be 
common  to  every  poet — though  to  be  sure  they  are 
not  many — in  whom  sheer  imagination,  the  first 
and  last  poetic  gift,  is  pre-eminent.  Mr  Stephens 
has  many  other  qualities,  which  give  his  work 
depth,  variety  and  significance  ;  but  fine  as  they 
are,  they  take  a  secondary  place  beside  this  ardent, 
plastic  power. 

We  quickly  see,  even  in  the  early  poem  from  which 
I  have  quoted,  the  mixed  elements  of  this  gift.  Now 
286 


James  Stephens 

the  grotesquerie  which  seems  to  lie  in  the  fact  that 
Tomas  tells  about  the  majesty  and  familiar  kindli- 
ness of  God  '  in  a  pub,'  may  be  apparent  only.  It 
probably  arises  from  one's  own  sophistication  and 
painful  respectability.  We  have  lost  the  simpli- 
city which  would  make  it  possible  to  talk  about 
such  a  subject  at  all ;  and  as  for  doing  it  in  a 
pub.  .  .  .  ! 

Yet  there  is  something  truly  grotesque  in  this 
work.  That  is  to  say,  there  is  a  juxtaposition  of 
ideas  so  violently  contrasted  that  they  would  provoke 
instant  mirth  if  it  were  not  for  the  grave  intensity 
of  vision.  Sometimes,  indeed,  they  are  frankly 
absurd.  We  are  meant  to  laugh  at  them,  as  we  do 
at  Mac  Dhoul,  squirming  with  merriment  on  God's 
throne  with  the  angels  frozen  in  astonishment 
round  him.  But  generally  these  extraordinary 
images  are  presented  seriously,  and  often  they  are 
winged  straight  from  the  heart  of  the  poet's  philo- 
sophy. Then,  the  driving  power  of  emotion  and  a 
passion  of  sincerity  carry  us  safely  over  what  seems 
to  be  their  amazing  irreverence.  There  is,  for 
instance,  in  the  piece  called  "  The  Fulness  of 
Time,"  a  complete  philosophic  conception  of  good 
and  evil,  boldly  caught  into  sacred  symbolism. 
The  poet  tells  here  how  he  found  Satan,  old  and 
haggard,  sitting  on  a  rusty  throne  in  a  distant  star. 

287 


Contemporary   "Poets 

All  his  work  was  done  ;   and  God  came  to  call  him 
to  Paradise. 

Gabriel  without  a  frown, 

Uriel  without  a  spear, 

Raphael  came  singing  down 

Welcoming  their  ancient  peer, 

And  they  seated  him  beside 

One  who  had  been  crucified. 

It  is  not  irreverence,  of  course,  but  the  audacity 
of  poetic  innocence.  Only  an  imagination  pure  of 
convention  and  ceremonial  would  dare  so  greatly. 
And  the  remarkable  thing  is  that  this  naivete  is 
intimately  blended  with  a  grandeur  which  sometimes 
rises  to  the  sublime.  The  noblest  and  most  com- 
plete expression  of  that  is  in  "  The  Lonely  God." 
That  is  probably  the  reason  why  this  poem  is  the 
finest  thing  that  Mr  Stephens  has  done — that,  and 
the  magnitude  of  its  central  idea.  There  is,  indeed, 
the  closest  relation  here  between  the  thought  and 
the  imagery  in  which  it  is  made  visible.  But, 
keeping  our  curious  scrutiny  fixed  for  the  moment 
on  the  changing  form  of  the  imaginative  essence 
of  the  work,  let  us  take  first  the  opening  lines  of 
the  poem  : 

So  Eden  was  deserted,  and  at  eve 
Into  the  quiet  place  God  came  to  grieve. 
His  face  was  sad,  His  hands  hung  slackly  down 
Along  his  robe  .  .  . 
288 


James  Stephens 

...  All  the  birds  had  gone 
Out  to  the  world,  and  singing  was  not  one 
To  cheer  the  lonely  God  out  of  His  grief — 

There  follow  several  stanzas  of  exquisite  reverie  as 
the  majestic  figure  paces  sadly  in  Adam's  silent 
garden  and  pauses  before  the  little  hut 

Chaste  and  remote,  so  tiny  and  so  shy, 

So  new  withal,  so  lost  to  any  eye, 

So  pac't  of  memories  all  innocent.  .  .  . 

Then,  reminiscent  of  the  dear  friendliness  of  those 
banished  human  souls,  desolation  comes  upon  the 
solitary  Being.  He  remembers  that  he  is  eternal 
and  ringed  round  with  Infinity.  He  sends  thought 
flying  back  through  endless  centuries,  but  cannot 
find  the  beginning  of  Time.  He  ranges  North 
and  South,  but  cannot  find  the  bounds  of  Space. 
He  is  most  utterly  alone — save  for  his  silly  singing 
angels — in  the  monotonous  glory  of  his  heaven. 

.  .  .  Many  days  I  sped 
Hard  to  the  west,  a  thousand  years  I  fled 
Eastwards  in  fury,  but  I  could  not  find 
The  fringes  of  the  Infinite.  .  .  . 

— till  at  last 

Dizzied  with  distance,  thrilling  to  a  pain 
Unnameable,  I  turned  to  Heaven  again. 

T  280 


Contemporary   "Poets 

And  there  My  angels  were  prepared  to  fling 

The  cloudy  incense,  there  prepared  to  sing 

My  praise  and  glory — O,  in  fury  I 

Then  roared  them  senseless,  then  threw  down  the 

sky 

And  stamped  upon  it,  buffeted  a  star 
With  My  great  fist,  and  flung  the  sun  afar  : 
Shouted  My  anger  till  the  mighty  sound 
Rung  to  the  width,  frighting  the  furthest  bound 
And  scope  of  hearing  :  tumult  vaster  still, 
Thronging  the  echo,  dinned  my  ears,  until 
I  fled  in  silence,  seeking  out  a  place 
To  hide  Me  from  the  very  thought  of  Space. 

There  was  once  a  reviewer  who  compared  the 
genius  of  this  poet  to  that  of  Homer  and  ^Eschylus. 
Now  comparisons  like  that  are  apt  to  tease  the  mind 
of  the  discriminating,  to  whom  there  instantly 
appear  all  the  gulfs  of  difference.  But,  indeed,  this 
poet  does  share  in  some  measure,  with  ^Eschylus 
and  our  own  Milton  and  the  unknown  author  of  the 
Book  of  Job,  a  sublimity  of  vision.  His  concep- 
tions have  a  grandeur  of  simplicity ;  and  he  makes 
us  realize  immensities — Eternity  and  Space  and 
Force — by  images  which  are  almost  primitive.  Like 
those  other  poets  too,  whose  philosophical  con- 
ceptions were  as  different  from  his  as  their 
ages  are  remote,  he  also  has  made  God  in  the 
image  of  man.  But  the  comparison  does  not  touch 
290 


James  Stephens 

what  we  may  call  the  human  side  of  this  newer 
genius  ;  and  it  only  serves  to  throw  into  bolder 
relief  its  perception  of  life's  comedy,  its  waywardness, 
and  its  mischievous  humour.  This  aspect,  strongly 
contrasted  as  it  is  with  the  poet's  imaginative 
power,  is  at  least  equally  interesting.  It  is  ap- 
parent, in  the  earlier  work,  in  the  realism  of  such 
pieces  as  "  The  Dancer  "  or  "  The  Street."  There 
is  a  touch  of  harshness  in  these  poems  which 
•  would  amount  to  crudity  if  their  realism  were  an 
outward  thing  only.  But  it  is  not  a  mere  trick 
of  style :  it  proceeds  from  indignation,  from  an 
outraged  aesthetic  sense,  and  from  a  mental  courage 
which  attains  its  height,  rash  but  splendid,  in 
"  Optimist  "— 

Let  ye  be  still,  ye  tortured  ones,  nor  strive 
Where  striving's  futile.     Ye  can  ne'er  attain 
To  lay  your  burdens  down. 

This  poet  is  not  a  realist  at  all,  of  course — far 
from  it.  But  he  loves  life  and  earth  and  homely 
words,  he  is  very  candid  and  revealing,  and  he  has 
a  sense  of  real  values.  His  humanity,  too,  is  deep 
and  strong,  and  often  supplies  his  verse  with  the 
material  of  actual  existence,  totally  lacking  factitious 
glamour.  Thus  we  have  "  To  the  Four  Courts, 
Please,"  in  which  the  first  stanza  describes  the 

291 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

deplorable  state  of  an  ancient  cab-horse  and  his 
driver.     Then — 

God  help  the  horse  and  the  driver  too, 
And  the  people  and  beasts  who  have  never  a  friend, 
For  the  driver  easily  might  have  been  you, ' 
And  the  horse  be  me  by  a  different  end. 

This  humane  temper  is  the  more  remarkable  from 
being  braced  by  a  shrewd  faculty  of  insight.  There 
is  no  sentimentality  in  it  ;  and  that  the  poet  has 
no  illusions  about  human  frailty  may  be  seen  in  such 
a  poem  as  "  Said  The  Old-Old  Man."  It  is  ballasted 
with  humour,  too  ;  and  has  a  charming  whimsicality. 
Hence  the  lightness  of  touch  in  "  Windy  Corner  " — 

O,  I  can  tell  and  I  can  know 

What  the  wind  rehearses  : 
"  A  poet  loved  a  lady  so, 
Loved  her  well,  and  let  her  go 

While  he  wrote  his  verses." 


That's  the  tale  the  winds  relate 

Soon  as  night  is  shady. 
If  it's  true,  I'll  simply  state 
A  poet  is  a  fool  to  rate 

His  art  above  his  lady. 

Returning,  however,  to  the  larger  implications 
of  this  poetry,  one  may  find  a  passion  for  liberty  in 
it,  and  a  courageous  faith  in  the  future  of  the  race. 
292 


James  Stephens 

Here  we  have,  in  fact,  a  pure  idealist,  one  of  the 
invincible  few  who  have  brought  their  ideals  into 
touch  with  reality.  One  does  not  suspect  it  at 
first — or  at  least  we  do  not  see  how  far  it  goes — 
largely  for  the  reason  that  it  is  so  deeply  grounded. 
The  poet's  hold  on  life,  on  the  actual,  on  the  very 
data  of  experience,  is  unyielding  :  his  perception  of 
truth  is  keen  and  his  intellectual  honesty  complete. 
And  then  the  way  in  which  his  imagination  moulds 
things  in  the  round,  as  it  were,  leaves  no  room  to 
guess  that  there  is  a  limitless  something  behind 
or  within.  True,  we  have  felt  all  along  what  we 
can  only  call  the  spiritual  touch  in  this  poetry. 
It  is  always  there,  lighter  or  more  commanding, 
and  sometimes  it  will  come  home  very  sweetly  in  a 
comic  piece,  as  for  instance  when  "  The  Merry 
Policeman,"  appointed  guardian  of  the  Tree,  calls 
reassuringly  to  the  scared  thief  : 

...  u  Be  at  rest, 
The  best  to  him  who  wants  the  best." 

We  have  observed,  too,  a  faculty  of  seeing  the  spirit 
of  things — a  habit  of  looking  right  through  facts 
to  something  beyond  them.  But  still  we  did  not 
quite  understand  what  these  signs  meant  ;  and  if 
we  tried  to  account  for  them  in  any  way,  we  prob- 
ably offered  ourselves  the  all-too-easy  explanation 

293 


Contemporary   "Poets 

that  this  was  the  playful,  fanciful,  Celtic  way  of  look- 
ing at  the  world.  Well,  so  it  may  be  ;  but  that  charm- 
ing manner  is,  in  all  gravity,  just  the  outward  sign  of 
an  inward  grace.  And  if  anyone  should  doubt  that 
it  points  in  this  case  to  a  clear  idealism,  he  may  be 
invitedto  consider  this  little  poem  which  prefaces  the 
poet's  second  volume,  called  "  The  Hill  of  Vision  "  : 

Everything  that  I  can  spy 
Through  the  circle  of  my  eye, 
Everything  that  I  can  see 
Has  been  woven  out  of  me  ; 
I  have  sown  the  stars,  and  threw 
Clouds  of  morning  and  of  eve 
Up  into  the  vacant  blue  ; 
Everything  that  I  perceive, 
Sun  and  sea  and  mountain  high, 
All  are  moulded  by  my  eye  : 
Closing  it,  what  shall  I  find  ? 
— Darkness,  and  a  little  wind. 

Now  it  must  not  be  inferred  that  Mr  Stephens 
is  an  austere  person  who  propounds  ideals  to  him- 
self as  themes  for  his  poetry.  We  should  detect 
his  secret  much  more  readily  if  he  did — and  it  may 
be  that  we  should  not  like  him  quite  so  well.  Hardly 
ever  do  you  catch  him,  as  it  were,  saying  to  his 
Muse  :  "  Come,  let  us  make  a  song  about  liberty, 
or  the  future."  The  very  process  of  his  thought, 
as  well  as  the  order  of  his  verse,  seems  often  to  be 
294 


James  Stephens 

by  way  of  an  object  to  an  idea.  He  takes  some  bit 
of  the  actual  world — a  bird,  a  tree,  or  a  human 
creature ;  and  tuning  his  instrument  to  that,  he  is 
presently  off  and  away  into  the  blue. 

Once,  however,  he  did  sing  directly  on  this  subject 
of  liberty,  and  about  the  external,  physical  side  of  it. 
It  was,  of  course,  in  that  early  book  ;  and  there  may 
also  be  found  two  studies  of  the  idea  of  liberty  in  its 
more  abstract  nature.  They  both  treat  of  the  woman 
giving  up  her  life  into  the  hands  of  the  man  whom  she 
marries.  And  in  both  there  is  brought  out  with  ring- 
ing clarity  the  inalienable  freedom  of  the  human  soul. 
Thus  "  The  Red-haired  Man's  Wife,"  musing  upon 
the  inexplicable  changes  that  marriage  has  wrought 
for  her — on  her  dependence,  and  on  the  apparent  loss 
of  her  very  identity,  wins  through  to  the  light — • 

I  am  separate  still, 

I  am  I  and  not  you  : 
And  my  mind  and  my  will, 

As  in  secret  they  grew, 
Still  are  secret,  unreached  and  untouched  and  not 

subject  to  you. 

Thus,  too,   "  The  Rebel  "  finds  an  answer   to   an 
importunate  lover — 

You  sob  you  love  me — What, 

Must  I  desert  my  soul 

Because  you  wish  to  kiss  my  lips, 

295 


Contemporary   ^Poets 

I  must  be  I,  not  you, 
That  says  the  thing  in  brief. 
I  grew  to  this  without  your  aid, 
Can  face  the  future  unafraid, 
Nor  pine  away  with  grief 
Because  I'm  lonely.   .   .   . 

It  is,  however,  in  "  A  Prelude  and  a  Song  "  that 
this  ardour  of  freedom  finds  purest  expression. 
Not  that  the  poem  was  designed  to  that  end.  I 
believe  that  it  was  made  for  nothing  on  this  earth 
but  the  sheer  joy  of  singing.  How  can  one  describe 
this  poem  ?  It  is  the  lyrical  soul  of  poetry  ;  it  is 
the  heart  of  poetic  rapture  ;  it  is  the  musical  spirit 
of  the  wind  and  of  birds'  cries  ;  it  is  a  passion  of 
movement,  swaying  to  the  dancing  grace  of  leaves 
and  flowers  and  grass,  to  the  majesty  of  sailing 
clouds  ;  it  is  the  sweet,  shrill,  palpitating  ecstasy 
of  the  lark,  singing  up  and  up  until  he  is  out  of 
sight,  sustaining  his  song  at  the  very  door  of  heaven, 
and  singing  into  sight  again,  to  drop  suddenly  down 
to  the  green  earth,  exhausted. — And  I  have  not 
yet  begun  to  say  what  the  poem  really  is :  I  have 
a  doubt  whether  prose  is  equal  to  a  definition.  In 
some  degree  at  any  rate  it  is  a  paean  of  freedom: 
delighted  liberty  lives  in  it.  But  we  cannot  apply 
our  little  distinctions  here,  saying  that  it  is  this  or 
that  or  the  other  kind  of  freedom  which  is  extolled; 
296 


James  Stephens 

because  we  are  now  in  a  region  where  thought  and 
feeling  are  one  ;  in  a  golden  age  where  good  and 
evil  are  lost  in  innocency  ;  in  a  blessed  state  where 
body  and  soul  have  forgotten  their  old  feud  in  glad 
reunion. 

One  hesitates  to  quote  from  the  poem.  It  is 
long,  and  as  the  title  implies,  it  is  in  two  move- 
ments. But  though  every  stanza  has  a  lightsome 
grace  which  makes  it  lovely  in  itself — though  the 
whole  chain,  if  broken  up,  would  yield  as  many  gems 
as  there  are  stanzas,  irregular  in  size  and  shape 
indeed,  but  each  shining  and  complete — the  great 
beauty  of  the  poem  is  its  beauty  as  a  whole.  It 
would  seem  a  reproach  to  imperil  that.  Yet  there 
is  a  culminating  passage  of  extreme  significance  to 
which  we  must  come  directly  for  the  crowning 
word  of  the  poet's  philosophy.  From  that  we  may 
take  a  fragment  now,  if  only  to  observe  the  reach  of 
its  imagination  and  to  win  some  sense  which  the 
poem  conveys  of  limitless  spiritual  range. 

Reach  up  my  wings  ! 

Now  broaden  into  space  and  carry  me 

Beyond  where  any  lark  that  sings 

Can  get  : 

Into  the  utmost  sharp  tenuity, 

The  breathing-point,  the  start,  the  scarcely-stirred 

High  slenderness  where  never  any  bird 

Has  winged  to  yet  ! 

297 


Contemporary   *Poets 

The  moon  peace  and  the  star  peace  and  the  peace 
Of  chilly  sunlight  :  to  the  void  of  space, 
The  emptiness,  the  giant  curve,  the  great 
Wide-stretching  arms  wherein  the  gods  embrace 
And  stars  are  born  and  suns.  .  .  . 

There  follows  hard  upon  that  what  is  in  effect  a 
confession  of  faith.  It  is  not  explicitly  so,  of  course. 
Subjective  this  poet  may  be — is  it  not  a  virtue  in 
the  lyricist  ? — but  he  does  not  confide  his  religion 
to  us  in  so  many  words.  He  has  an  artistic  con- 
science. But  the  avowal,  though  it  is  by  way  of 
allegory  and  grows  up  out  of  the  imagery  of  the 
poem  as  naturally  as '  a  blossom  from  its  stem,  is 
clear  enough.  And  is  supported  elsewhere,  im- 
plicitly, or  by  a  mental  attitude,  or  outlined  now  and 
then  in  figurative  brilliance.  There  can  be  no 
reason  to  doubt  its  strength  and  its  sincerity — and 
there  is  every  reason  to  rejoice  in  it — for  it  reveals 
Mr  Stephens  as  a  poet  of  the  future. 

One  pauses  there,  realizing  that  the  term  may 
mean  very  much — or  nothing  at  all.  It  may  even 
suggest  a  certain  technical  vogue  which,  however 
admirable  in  the  theory  of  its  originators,  has  not 
yet  justified  itself  in  the  creation  of  manifest  beauty. 
Our  poet  has  no  association  with  that,  of  course, 
except  in  that  he  shares  the  general  forward  im- 
pulse of  the  spirit  of  his  generation.  That  is, 
298 


James   Stephens 

quite  clearly,  to  escape  from  the  tyranny  of  the 
past  in  thought  and  word  and  metrical  form  ;  and 
therein  he  is  at  one  with  many  of  the  poets  in 
this  book.  We  may  grant  that  it  is  an  important 
exception  :  that  the  movement  which  is  indicated 
here  may  be  the  sober  British  version  of  its  more 
daring  Italian  counterpart.  Yet  there  remains 
still  a  difference  wide  enough  and  deep  enough  to 
disclaim  any  technical  relationship. 

The  root  of  the  matter  lies  there,  however.  In 
Mr  Stephens  what  we  may  call  the  poetic  instinct 
of  the  age  works  not  merely  to  escape  from  the  past, 
but  to  advance  into  the  future — and  it  has  become 
a  conscious,  reasoned  hope  in  human  destiny.  It 
does  not  with  him  so  much  influence  the  form  of 
the  work  as  it  directs  the  spirit  of  it.  And  that 
spirit  is  an  absolute  and  impassioned  belief  in  the 
future  of  mankind.  Therein  he  stands  contrasted 
with  many  of  the  younger  English  poets,  and  with 
his  own  compatriots.  With  many  of  his  compeers 
the  escape  has  been  into  their  own  time,  and  the 
noblest  thing  evolved  from  that  is  a  grave  and  tender 
social  conscience.  Some,  of  course,  have  not  escaped 
at  all,  and  have  no  wish  to  do  so.  Their  work  has 
its  own  soft  evening  loveliness.  But  whilst  Mr 
Yeats  lives  delicately  in  a  romantic  past,  whilst  poor 
Synge  lived  tragically  in  a  sardonic  present,  this 

299 


Contemporary   ^Poets 

poet  stands  on  his  hill  of  vision  and  cries  to  the 
world  the  good  tidings  of  a  promised  land.  Here 
it  is,  from  the  closing  passage  of  "  A  Prelude  and  a 
Song  "  : 

There  the  flower  springs, 

Therein  does  grow 

The  bud  of  hope,  the  miracle  to  come 

For  whose  dear  advent  we  are  striving  dumb 

And  joyless  :   Garden  of  Delight 

That  God  has  sowed  ! 

In  thee  the  flower  of  flowers, 

The  apple  of  our  tree, 

The  banner  of  our  towers, 

The  recompense  for  every  misery, 

The  angel-man,  the  purity,  the  light 

Whom  we  are  working  to  has  his  abode  ; 

Until  our  back  and  forth,  our  life  and  death 

And  life  again,  our  going  and  return 

Prepare  the  way  :  until  our  latest  breath, 

Deep-drawn  and  agonized,  for  him  shall  burn 

A  path  :  for  him  prepare 

Laughter  and  love  and  singing  everywhere  ; 

A  morning  and  a  sunrise  and  a  day  1 


300 


Margaret  L.  JVoods 

A  OUT  one  half  of  the  poetry  in  Mrs 
Woods'  collected  edition  is  dramatic  in 
character.  There  are  two  plays  in  regular 
form,  tragedies  both.  One,  Wild  Justice,  is  in  six 
scenes  which  carry  the  action  rapidly  forward  almost 
without  a  break.  The  other,  called  The  Princess 
of  Hanover,  is  in  three  acts,  which  move  in  a  wider 
arc  through  the  rise,  cumulation  and  catastrophe 
of  a  tragic  story.  These  two  dramas,  which  are 
powerfully  imagined  and  skilfully  wrought,  are 
placed  in  a  separate  section  at  the  end  of  the  book 
— quite  the  best  wine  thus  being  left  to  finish  the 
feast. 

Fine  as  they  are,  however,  the  plays  do  not  com- 
pletely represent  the  poet's  dramatic  gift.  And 
when  we  note  the  comic  elements  of  two  or  three 
pieces  which  are  tucked  away  in  the  middle  of  the 
volume,  we  may  admit  a  hope  that  Mrs  Wood  may 
be  impelled  on  some  fair  day  to  attempt  regular 
comedy.  There  is,  for  instance,  the  fun  of  the 
delightful  medley  called  "  Marlborough  Fair." 
Here  are  broad  humour  and  vigorous,  hearty  life 
which  smells  of  the  soil ;  little  studies  of  country- 
folk, incomplete  but  vivid  ;  scraps  of  racy  dialogue, 
and  the  prattle  of  a  child,  all  interwoven  with  the 

301 


Contemporary  T^oets 

grotesque!  fancies  of  a  fertile  imagination,  endowing 
even  the  beasts  and  inanimate  objects  of  the  show 
with  consciousness  and  speech.  Hints  there  are 
in  plenty  (though  to  be  sure  they  are  in  some  cases 
no  more  than  hints)  that  the  poet's  dramatic  sense 
would  handle  the  common  stuff  of  life  as  surely 
and  as  freely  as  it  deals  with  tragedy.  In  this 
particular  poem,  of  course,  the  touches  are  of  the 
nature  of  low  comedy  ;  the  awkward  sweethearting 
of  a  pair  of  rustic  lovers  ;  the  showman,  alter- 
nating between  bluster  and  enticement  ;  the  rough 
banter  of  a  group  of  farm  lads  about  the  cokernut- 
shy,  and  the  matron  who  presides  there — 

Swarthy  and  handsome  and  broad  of  face 
'Twixt  the  banded  brown  of  her  glossy  hair. 

In  her  ears  are  shining  silver  rings, 
Her  head  and  massive  throat  are  bare, 
She  needs  good  length  in  her  apron  strings 
And  has  a  jolly  voice  and  loud 
To  cry  her  wares  and  draw  the  crowd. 

— Fine  Coker-nuts  !     My  lads,  we're  giving 
Clean  away  !    Who  wants  to  win  'em  ? 
Fresh  Coker-nuts !    The  milk's  yet  in  'em. 
Come  boys  !     Only  a  penny  a  shot, 
Three  nuts  if  you  hit  and  the  fun  if  not. 

The  effects  are  broad  and  strong,  the  tone  cheery. 
But  in  another  piece  where  the  dramatic  element 
enters,  "The  May  Morning  and  the  Old  Man," 
302 


Margaret  L.    Woods 

the  note  is  deeper.  There  is,  indeed,  in  the  talk  of 
the  two  old  men  on  the  downland  road,  a  much 
graver  tone  of  the  Comic  Spirit.  One  of  them  has 
come  slowly  up  the  hill  and  greets  another  who  is 
working  in  a  field  by  the  roadside  with  a  question. 
He  wants  to  know  how  far  it  is  to  Chillingbourne  ; 
he  is  going  back  to  his  old  home  there  and  must 
reach  it  before  nightfall. 

FIRST  OLD  MAN.     It  bean't  for  j'y  I  taak  the  road. 
But,  Mester,  I  be  getten  awld. 
Do  seem  as  though  in  all  the  e'th 

There  bean't  no  plaace, 
No  room  on  e'th  for  awld  volk. 
SECOND  OLD  MAN.        The  e'th  do  lie 
Yonder,  so  wide  as  Heaven  a'most, 

And  God  as  made  un 
Made  room,  I  warr'nt,  for  all  Christian  souls. 

It  is,  however,  through  the  medium  of  tragedy 
that  the  genius  of  Mrs  Woods  has  found  most 
powerful  expression.  Not  her  charming  lyrics,  not 
even  the  contemplative  beauty  of  her  elegiac  poems, 
can  stand  beside  the  creative  energy  of  the  two  plays 
to  which  we  must  come  directly.  But  the  best 
of  the  lyrics  are  notable,  nevertheless  ;  and  two 
or  three  have  already  passed  into  the  common 
store  of  great  English  poetry.  Of  such  is  the 
splendid  hymn,  "  To  the  Forgotten  Dead,"  with 

3°3 


Contemporary   IPoets 

its  emit  ing  pride  of  race  chastened  by  the  thought 
of  death. 

To  the  forgotten  dead, 
Come,  let  us  drink  in  silence  ere  we  part. 
To  every  fervent  yet  resolved  heart 
That  brought  its  tameless  passion  and  its  tears, 
Renunciation  and  laborious  years, 
To  lay  the  deep  foundations  of  our  race, 
To  rear  its  mighty  ramparts  overhead 
And  light  its  pinnacles  with  golden  grace. 

To  the  unhonoured  dead. 


To  the  forgotten  dead, 

Whose  dauntless  hands  were  stretched  to  grasp  the  rein 
Of  Fate  and  hurl  into  the  void  again 
Her  thunder-hoofed  horses,  rushing  blind 
Earthward  along  the  courses  of  the  wind. 
Among  the  stars  along  the  wind  in  vain 
Their  souls  were  scattered  and  their  blood  was  shed, 
And  nothing,  nothing  of  them  doth  remain. 

To  the  thrice-perished  dead. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  lyric  gift  of  the  poet 
moves  at  the  prompting  of  an  imaginative  passion. 
It  is  nearly  always  so  in  this  poetry.  Very  seldom 
does  the  impulse  appear  to  come  from  intimate 
personal  emotion  or  individual  experience  ;  and  the 
volume  may  therefore  help  to  refute  the  dogma 
that  the  poetry  of  a  woman  is  bound  to  be 

3°4 


Margaret  L.    Woods 

subjective,  from  the  laws  of  her  own  nature. 
Occasionally,  of  course,  a  direct  cry  will  seem  to 
make  itself  heard — the  most  reticent  human  crea- 
ture will  pay  so  much  toll  to  its  humanity.  And 
it  is  true  that  in  such  a  spontaneous  utterance 
the  voice  will  be  distinctively  feminine — life  as  the 
woman  knows  it  will  find  its  interpreter.  Thus 
we  see  austerity  breaking  down  in  the  poem  "  On 
the  Death  of  an  Infant,"  mournfully  sweet  with 
a  mother's  sorrow.  Hence,  too,  in  "  Under  the 
Lamp  "  comes  the  loathing  for  "  the  vile  hidden 
commerce  of  the  city  "  ;  and  accompanying  it  a 
touch  of  the  feminine  bias  (yielding  in  these  late 
days  perhaps  to  fuller  knowledge  and  consequent 
sympathy)  which  inclines  to  regard  the  evil  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  degradation  of  the  man 
rather  than  that  of  the  wrong  to  the  woman. 
Or  again,  there  is  "  The  Changeling,"  perhaps  the 
tenderest  of  the  few  poems  which  may,  in  a  cer- 
tain sense,  be  called  subjective.  Through  the  thin 
veil  of  allegory  one  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  enduring 
mystery  of  maternal  love.  The  mother  is  brood- 
ing over  the  change  in  her  child  :  she  has  not  been 
watchful  enough,  she  thinks  ;  and  while  she  was 
unheeding,  some  evil  thing  had  entered  into  her 
baby  and  driven  out  the  fair  soul  with  which  he 
began. 

u  305 


Contemporary   "Poets 

Perhaps  he  called  me  and  I  was  dumb. 
Unconcerned  I  sat  and  heard 

Little  things, 
Ivy  tendrils,  a  bird's  wings, 

A  frightened  bird — 
Or  faint  hands  at  the  window-pane  ? 
And  now  he  will  never  come  again, 
The  little  soul.     He  is  quite  lost. 

She  tries  to  woo  him  back,  with  prayer  and  incan- 
tations ;  but  he  will  not  come  ;  and  when  at  last  she 
is  worn  out  with  waiting,  she  seeks  an  old  wizard  and 
begs  him  to  sell  her  forgetfulness  for  a  price.  But 
it  is  too  hard  a  thing  that  she  asks  :  it  needs  a  mighty 
spell  to  make  a  woman  forget  her  son  ;  and  the 
mother  has  to  go  without  the  boon.  She  has  not 
wealth  enough  in  the  world  to  pay  the  Wise  Man's 
fee.  But  afterwards  she  is  glad  that  she  was  too 
poor  to  pay  the  price : 

Because  if  I  did  not  remember  him, 

My  little  child — Ah  !  what  should  we  have, 

He  and  I  ?     Not  even  a  grave 

With  a  name  of  his  own  by  the  river's  brim. 

Because  if  among  the  poppies  gay 

On  the  hill-side,  now  my  eyes  are  dim, 

I  could  not  fancy  a  child  at  play, 

And  if  I  should  pass  by  the  pool  in  the  quarry 

And  never  see  him,  a  darling  ghost, 

Sailing  a  boat  there,  I  should  be  sorry — 

306 


Margaret  L.    Woods 

If  in  the  firelit,  lone  December 
I  never  heard  him  come  scampering  post 
Haste  down  the  stair — if  the  soul  that  is  lost 
Came  back,  and  I  did  not  remember. 

Such  poetry  reveals  the  woman  in  the  poet, 
and  is  precious  for  that  reason  :  it  brings  its  own 
light  to  the  book  of  humanity.  But  it  is  not 
especially  characteristic  of  Mrs  Woods'  work,  for 
much  more  often  it  is  the  poet  in  the  woman  who 
is  revealed  there.  Powers  which  are  independent 
of  sex — of  imagination,  of  sensibility,  and  of 
thought,  have  gone  to  the  making  of  that  which 
is  finest  in  her  verse.  They  are  not  equally  present 
here,  of  course.  Imagination  overtops  them,  lofty 
and  keen,  achieving  at  will  the  complete  objec- 
tivity demanded  of  her  art.  Thought  is  a  degree 
less  powerful,  perhaps.  It  is  brooding,  museful, 
and  retrospective,  tinged  with  a  melancholy  that 
may  be  wistful  or  passionate ;  and  though  it 
commonly  revolves  the  larger  issues  of  life  within 
the  canons  of  authority,  it  is  clear  enough  to  see 
beyond  them,  and  even,  upon  occasion,  to  pierce 
a  way  through.  But  it  is  not  always  sufficiently 
strong  to  control  completely  the  flight  of  imagina- 
tion ;  and  there  is  no  acute  sense  of  fact  to 
reinforce  it  with  truth  of  detail.  Instead  of 
watching,  recording,  analyzing,  this  is  a  mind 

307 


Contemporary    'Poets 

which  leans  lovingly  toward  the  past,  and  has 
a  sense,  instinctive  as  well  as  scholarly,  of  historic 
values  :  while,  for  its  artistic  method,  it  passes  all 
the  treasure  that  fancy  has  gathered,  and  even 
passion  itself,  through  the  alembic  of  memory. 
So  is  created  a  softer  grace,  a  serener  atmosphere, 
and  a  richer  dignity  than  the  realist  can  achieve 
— and  we  will  not  be  churlish  enough  to  com- 
plain if,  at  the  same  time,  the  salt  of  reality  is 
missing. 

I  should  think  that  "The  Builders:  A  Noc- 
turne in  Westminster  Abbey,"  most  fully  re- 
presents this  poet's  lyrical  gift.  Individual 
qualities  of  it  may  perhaps  be  observed  more 
clearly  elsewhere ;  but  here  they  combine  to 
produce  an  effect  of  meditative  sweetness  and 
stately,  elegiac  grace  which  are  very  character- 
istic. The  poem  is  in  ten  movements,  of  very 
unequal  length  and  irregular  form.  It  is  un- 
rhymed,  and  stanzas  may  vary  almost  indefinitely 
in  length,  as  the  verse  may  pass  from  a  dimeter, 
light  or  resonant,  up  through  the  intervening 
measures  to  the  roll  of  the  hexameter.  But  this 
originality  of  technique,  leaving  room  for  so  many 
shades  of  thought  and  feeling,  was  happily  inspired  ; 
and  below  the  changeful  form  runs  perfect  unity 
of  tone.  The  creative  impulse  is  subdued  to  the 
308 


Margaret  L.    Woods 

contemplative  mood  induced  in  the  mind  of  the 
poet  as  she  stands  in  the  Abbey  at  night  and  broods 
upon  its  history.  Her  thought  goes  far  back,  to  the 
early  builders  of  the  fabric  whose  pale  phantoms 
seem  to  float  in  the  shades  of  the  '  grey  ascending 
arches.' 

When  the  stars  are  muffled  and  under  them  all  the 

earth 

Is  a  fiery  fog  and  the  sinister  roar  of  London, 
They  lament  for  the  toil  of  their  hands,  iheir  souls' 
travail — 

"  Ah,  the  beautiful  work  !  " 

It  was  set  to  shine  in  the  sun,  to  companion  the  stars, 
To  endure  as  the  hills,  the  ancient  hills,  endure ; 

Lo,  like  a  brand 

It  lies,  a  brand  consumed  and  blackened  of  fire, 
In  the  fierce  heart  of  London. 

Or,  like  Dante,  this  poet  will  follow  the  old 
ghosts  to  a  more  dreadful  region,  and  bring  them 
news  of  home — 

Fain  would  my  spirit, 
My  living  soul  beat  up  the  wind  of  death 
To  the  inaccessible  shore  and  with  warm  voice 
Deep-resonant  of  the  earth,  salute  the  dead  : 

I  also  would  bring 

To  the  old  unheeded  spirits  news  of  Earth  ; 
Of  England,  their  own  country,  choose  to  tell  them, 

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Contemporary   ^Poets 

And  how  above  St.  Edward's  bones  the  Minister 
Gloriously  stands,  how  it  no  more  beholds 
The  silver  Thames  broadening  among  green  meadows 
And  gardens  green,  nor  sudden  shimmer  of  streams 

And  the  clear  mild  blue  hills. 
Rather  so  high  it  stands  the  whole  earth  under 
Spreads  boundless  and  the  illimitable  sea. 

The  steps  of  the  sentry,  pacing  over  the  stones 

which  cover  the  great  dead  below,  remind  her  of 

those    other  builders    who    lie    there,    makers    of 
Empire. 

Over  what  dust  the  atom  footfall  passes ! 

Out  of  what  distant  lands,  by  what  adventures 

Superbly  gathered 

To  lie  so  still  in  the  unquiet  heart  of  London  ! 
Is  not  the  balm  of  Africa  yet  clinging 
About  the  bones  of  Livingstone  ?     Consider 
The  long  life-wandering,  the«strange  last  journey 
Of  this,  the  heroic  lion-branded  corpse, 

Still  urging  to  the  sea  ! 
And  here  the  eventual  far-off  deep  repose. 

This  poem  is  characteristic,  as  well  in  the 
choice  of  its  materials  as  in  its  treatment 
and  its  literary  flavour.  One  may  note  the 
opulent  language,  enriched  from  older  sources, 
the  historical  lore  and  the  allusive  touch  so  fas- 
cinating to  those  who  love  literature  for  its  own 
sake.  But  the  poet  can  work  at  times  in  a 
310 


Margaret  L.    Woods 

very  different  manner.  There  is,  for  instance, 
another  piece  of  unrhymed  verse,  "  March  Thoughts 
From  England,"  which  is  a  riot  of  light  and  colour, 
rich  scent  and  lovely  shape  and  bewitching  sound — 
the  sensuous  rapture  evoked  by  a  Provengal  scene 
6  recollected  in  tranquillity.'  Or  there  is  "  April/' 
with  the  keen  joy  of  an  English  spring,  also  a  glad 
response  to  the  direct  impressions  of  sense.  Imagina- 
tion is  subordinated  here  ;  but  if  we  turn  in  another 
direction  we  are  likely  to  find  it  paramount.  It  may 
be  manifested  in  such  various  degrees  and  through 
such  different  media  that  sharp  contrasts  will 
present  themselves.  Thus  we  might  turn  at  once 
from  the  playful  fancy  of  "The  Child  Alone" 
(where  a  little  maid  has  escaped  from  mother  and 
nurse  into  the  wonderful,  enchanted,  adventurous 
world  just  outside  the  garden)  to  the  thrice-heated 
fire  of  "  Again  I  Saw  Another  Angel."  Here 
imagination  has  fanned  thought  to  its  own  fierce 
heat  ;  and  in  the  sudden  flame  serenity  is  shrivelled 
up  and  gives  place  to  passionate  despair.  In  a  vision 
the  poet  sees  the  awful  messenger  of  the  Lord 
leap  into  the  heavens  with  a  great  cry — 

Then  suddenly  the  earth  was  white 
With  faces  turned  towards  his  light. 
The  nations'  pale  expectancy 
Sobbed  far  beneath  him  like  the  sea, 

3" 


Contemporary   'Poets 

But  men  exulted  in  their  dread, 
And  drunken  with  an  awful  glee 
Beat  at  the  portals  of  the  dead. 

I  saw  this  monstrous  grave  the  earth 

Shake  with  a  spasm  as  though  of  birth, 

And  shudder  with  a  sullen  sound, 

As  though  the  dead  stirred  in  the  ground. 

And  that  great  angel  girt  with  flame 

Cried  till  the  heavens  were  rent  around, 

"  Come  forth  ye  dead  !  " — Yet  no  man  came. 

But  from  the  intensity  of  that  we  may  pass  to  the 
dainty  grace  of  the  Songs,  where  the  poet  is  weaving 
in  a  gossamer  texture.  Or  we  may  consider  a  love- 
lyric  like  "  Passing,"  a  fragile  thing,  lightly  evoked 
out  of  a  touch  of  fantasy  and  a  breath  of  sweet  pain. 

With  thoughts  too  lovely  to  be  true, 

With  thousand,  thousand  dreams  I  strew 
The  path  that  you  must  come.     And  you 
Will  find  but  dew. 

I  break  my  heart  here,  love,  to  dower 

With  all  its  inmost  sweet  your  bower. 
What  scent  will  greet  you  in  an  hour  ? 
The  gorse  in  flower. 

In  the  plays  there  are  lyrics,  too,  delicately 
stressing  their  character  of  poetic  drama,  and  giving 
full  compass  to  the  author's  powers  in  each  work. 
Indeed,  the  combination  of  lyric  and  dramatic 
312 


Margaret  L.    Woods 

elements  is  very  skilfully  and  effectively  managed. 
There  is  a  ballad  which  serves  in  each  case  to  state 
the  motif  at  the  opening  of  the  play  :  not  in  so 
many  words,  of  course,  but  suggested  in  the  tragical 
events  of  some  old  story.  And  snatches  of  the  ballad 
recur  throughout,  crooned  by  one  of  the  persons 
of  the  drama,  or  played  by  a  lutist  at  a  gay  court 
festival.  But  always  the  dramatic  scheme  is  sub- 
served by  the  lyrical  fragments.  Sometimes  it  will 
fill  a  short  interval  with  a  note  of  foreboding,  or 
make  a  running  accompaniment  to  the  action,  or 
induce  an  ironic  tone,  or,  by  interpreting  emotion, 
it  will  relieve  tension  which  had  grown  almost  too 
acute.  But,  fittingly,  when  the  crisis  approaches 
and  action  must  move  freely  to  the  end,  the  lyric 
element  disappears. 

"The  Ballad  of  the  Mother,"  which  precedes 
"  Wild  Justice,"  creates  the  atmosphere  in  which  the 
play  moves  from  beginning  to  end.  It  prefigures 
the  plot,  too,  in  its  story  of  the  dead  mother  who 
hears  her  children  weeping  from  her  grave  in  the 
churchyard  ;  and,  after  vainly  imploring  both  angel 
and  sexton  to  let  her  go  and  comfort  them,  makes 
a  compact  with  the  devil  to  release  her. 

"  Then  help  me  out,  devil,  O  help  me,  good  devil  !  " 

"  A  price  must  be  paid  to  a  spirit  of  evil. 

Will  you  pay  me  the  price  ?  "  said  the  spirit  from  Hell. 


Contemporary  'Poets 

"  The  price  shall  be  paid,  the  bargain  is  made." 

Boom  !   boom  !   boom  ! 
From  the  tower  in  the  silence  there  sounds  the  great 

bell. 
"  I  am  fixing  the  price,"  said  the  devil  from  Hell. 

The  mother  in  the  play  is  Mrs  Gwyllim,  wife  of 
a  vicious  tyrant.  For  twenty-one  years  she  had 
borne  cruelty  and  humiliation  at  his  hands.  She 
had  even  been  patient  under  the  wrongs  which  he 
had  inflicted  on  her  children  :  the  violence  which 
had  maimed  her  eldest  son,  Owain,  in  his  infancy  ; 
which  had  hounded  another  boy  away  to  sea  and 
had  driven  a  daughter  into  a  madhouse.  But  at  the 
opening  of  the  play  a  sterner  spirit  is  growing  in 
her  :  meekness  and  submission  are  beginning  to  break 
down  under  the  consciousness  of  a  larger  duty  to 
her  children.  We  find  that  she  has  been  making 
appeals  for  help,  first  to  their  only  accessible  rela- 
tion ;  and  that  failing,  to  the  Vicar  of  their  parish. 
But  neither  of  these  men  had  dared  to  move  against 
the  tyrant.  They  live  on  a  lonely  little  island  off 
the  coast  of  Wales,  where  Gwyllim  practically  has 
the  small  population  in  his  power.  He  had  built  a 
lighthouse  on  the  coast  ;  and  at  the  time  of  the 
action,  which  is  early  in  the  nineteenth  century,  he 
is  empowered  to  own  it  and  to  take  toll  from  passing 


Margaret  L.    Woods 

vessels.  Thus  he  controls  the  means  of  existence  of 
the  working  people  ;  and  the  rest  are  deterred,  by 
reasons  of  policy  or  family  interest,  from  putting 
any  check  upon  him. 

In  the  first  scene  the  mother  announces  to  her 
daughter  Nelto  and  her  favourite  son  Shonnin  the 
result  of  her  appeal  to  the  Vicar.  His  only  reply 
had  been  to  affront  her  with  a  counsel  of  patience, 
though  Gwyllim's  misconduct  is  as  notorious  as 
his  wife's  long-suffering.  We  are  thus  made  to 
realize  the  isolation  and  helplessness  of  the  family 
before  we  proceed  to  the  second  scene,  with  its 
culmination  of  Gwyllim's  villainy  and  the  first  hint 
of  rebellion.  He  comes  into  the  house,  furious  at 
the  discovery  of  what  he  calls  his  wife's  treachery. 
Owain,  the  crippled  son,  is  present  during  part  of 
the  scene  ;  and  Nelto  passes  and  repasses  before  the 
open  door  of  an  inner  room,  hushing  the  baby  with 
stanzas  of  the  ballad  which  opens  the  play.  In  the 
presence  of  their  children,  Gwyllim  raves  at  his 
wife,  taunts  her  with  her  helplessness,  boasts  of  his 
own  infidelity,  and  flings  a  base  charge  at  her,  of 
which  he  says  he  has  already  informed  the  parson ; 
while  Nelto  croons — 

The  angels  are  fled,  and  the  sexton  is  sleeping, 
And  I  am  a  devil,  a  devil  from  Hell. 

The   mother   does   not  answer  ;    but   Owain  is 

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Contemporary  'Poets 

goaded  to  protest.  This  only  excites  Gwyllim 
further,  and  he  strikes  Owain  as  he  sits  in  his 
invalid  chair  ;  while  Shonnin,  coming  in  from  the 
adjoining  room,  brings  the  scene  to  a  climax  by 
asking  of  his  father  the  money  that  he  needs  to  go 
away  to  school.  Gwyllim  replies,  taking  off  his  coat 
meanwhile,  that  there  is  a  certain  rule  in  his  family. 
When  a  son  of  his  is  man  enough  to  knock  him  down 
he  shall  have  money  to  go  out  into  the  world ;  but 
not  before.  He  invites  Shonnin  to  try  his  strength  : 

GWYLLIM.  .  .  .  Come  on.  Why  don't  you  come 
on  ?  I'm  making  no  defence. 

SHONNIN.     Mother  ? 

GWYLLIM.  Leave  her  alone.  Strike  me,  boy.  I 
bid  you  do  it. 

SHONNIN.  Then  I  will  ;  with  all  my  might,  and 
may  God  increase  it  ! 

OWAIN.     There  is  no  God. 

Shonnin  strikes  three  times  ;  and  is  then  felled 
by  a  blow  from  his  father,  who  goes  out,  shouting 
orders  to  wife  as  he  retreats.  The  scene  closes  in 
a  final  horror.  Nelto,  a  pretty,  high-spirited  girl, 
has  hitherto  taken  little  part  in  the  action.  Her 
character,  however,  has  been  clearly  indicated  in  one 
or  two  strong  touches.  We  realize  that  she  is 
young,  impulsive,  warm-hearted  ;  keenly  sensitive  to 
beauty,  wilful  and  bright  ;  thrilling  to  her  finger- 

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Margaret  L.    floods 

tips  with  life  that  craves  its  birthright  of  liberty  and 
joy.  But  we  see,  too,  that  with  all  her  ardour  she 
is  as  proud  and  cold  in  her  attitude  to  love  as  a  very 
Artemis.  And  when  she  declares  that  she  also  has 
reached  the  point  of  desperation,  and  that  sooner 
than  remain  longer  in  the  gloom  and  terror  of  her 
home  she  will  fling  herself  into  a  shameful  career, 
we  feel  that  the  climax  has  indeed  been  reached. 

In  the  third  scene  the  plan  of  wild  justice  is 
formulated.  It  had  originated  in  the  mind  of 
Owain,  who  had  fed  his  brooding  temper  on  old 
stories  of  revenge.  To  him  the  dreadful  logic  of 
the  scheme  seemed  unanswerable.  No  power  on 
earth  or  heaven  could  help  them  ;  either  they  must 
save  themselves,  or  be  destroyed,  body  and  soul. 
He  puts  his  plan  before  Shonnin — to  lure  their  father 
by  a  light  wrongly  placed,  as  he  rows  home  at  night, 
on  to  the  quicksands  at  the  other  side  of  the  island. 
But  Shonnin,  if  he  has  less  strength  of  will  than 
Owain,  is  more  thoughtful  and  more  sensitive.  He 
is  appalled  at  the  proposal.  Owain  reminds  him 
of  their  wrongs  ;  asks  him  what  this  monster  has 
done  that  he  should  live  to  be  their  ruin.  And 
Shonnin,  seeing  the  issues  more  clearly,  replies 

.  .  .  Nothing  ; 

But  then  I  have  done  nothing  to  deserve 
To  be  made  a  parricide. 

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Contemporary  'Poets 

But  Nelto  has  been  listening,  and  hers  is  a  nature 
of  a  very  different  mettle.  Besides,  as  she  has  put 
the  alternative  to  herself,  it  means  but  a  choice 
between  two  evils  ;  and  this  plan  of  Owain's  seems 
at  least  a  cleaner  thing  than  the  existence  she  had 
contemplated.  She  declares  that  she  will  be  the 
instrument  of  the  revenge. 

The  rest  of  the  play  is  occupied  with  the  execution 
of  the  plan.  Scene  IV  shows  us  Nelto  going  on 
her  way  down  to  the  sea  at  night  with  the  lantern 
that  is  to  lead  Gwyllim  on  to  the  sands.  She  is 
trying  not  to  think  ;  but  the  very  face  of  nature 
seems  to  reflect  the  horror  that  is  in  her  soul — 

.  .  .  Down  slips  the  moon. 
NELTO.     Broken  and  tarnished  too  ?     Now  she  hangs 

motionless 

As  'twere  amazed,  in  a  silver  strait  of  sky 
Between  the  long  black  cloud  and  the  long  black  sea  ; 
The  sea  crawls  like  a  snake. 

The  figure  of  a  woman  suddenly  appears  in  the 
path.  It  is  her  mother  ;  she  has  overheard  their 
plans,  and  for  a  moment  Nelto  is  afraid  that  she 
has  come  to  frustrate  them.  But  Mrs  Gwyllim  has 
a  very  different  purpose  :  she  intends  to  take  upon 
herself  the  crime  that  her  children  are  about  to 
commit — • 

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Margaret  L.    Woods 

All's  fallen  from  me  now 

But  naked  motherhood.     What  !     Shall  a  hare 
Turn  on  the  red- jawed  dogs,  being  a  mother, 
The  unpitying  lioness  suckle  her  whelps 
Smeared  with  her  heart's  blood,  this  one  law  be  stamped 
For  ever  on  the  imperishable  stuff 
Of  our  mortality,  and  I,  I  only, 
Forbidden  to  obey  it  ? 

But  Nelto  sees  that  she  is  too  frail  and  weak  for 
the  task  ;  and  entreats  her  mother  to  return  to 
the  house.  Time  is  slipping,  and  her  father  is 
waiting  for  the  boat. 

MRS.  GWYLLIM.  Ellen,  you  are  too  young  ; 

You  should  be  innocent — 

NELTO.  Never  again 

After  this  night.     Come,  mother,  I  am  yours  ,• 
Make  me  a  wanton  or  an  avenger. 

MRS.  GWYLLIM.  Powers 

That  set  my  spirit  to  swing  on  such  a  thread 
Over  mere  blackness,  teach  me  now  to  guide  it  ! 

NELTO.     Mother,  the  moon  dips. 

MRS.  GWYLLIM.  Go,  my  daughter,  go  ! 

And  let  these  hands,  these  miserable  hands, 
Too  weak  to  avenge  my  children,  let  them  be 
Yet  strong  enough  to  pull  upon  my  head 
God's  everlasting  judgment  !     All  that  weight 
Fall  on  me  only  ! 

We  see  what  follows  in  the  closing  scenes  as 
a  fulfilment  of  that  prayer.  Nelto  takes  the  boat 

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Contemporary   ^Poets 

to  meet  Gwyllim,  intending  to  row  him  over  to  the 
false  light  that  she  herself  has  placed.  When  he 
has  stepped  ashore  she  is  to  push  off  instantly,  and 
leave  him  either  to  stride  forward  into  the  quicksand, 
or  to  be  drowned  by  the  tide.  Owain  and  his 
mother  peer  from  their  window  through  the  dark- 
ness, trying  to  follow  Nelto's  movements  by  the 
light  on  her  boat.  They  have  locked  Shonnin  in  his 
room  that  he  may  not  know  what  they  are  doing  and 
interfere.  But  he  manages  to  awaken  a  sleeping 
child  in  the  next  room,  and  is  released  in  time  to 
discover  what  is  afoot.  He  seizes  another  lantern 
and  rushes  down  to  the  bay  to  signal  a  warning  to 
his  father.  Meantime  Mrs  Gwyllim  and  Owain 
search  the  opposite  shore  with  a  telescope  ;  they  see 
the  light  on  the  boat  approach  it,  stop  for  just  so  long 
as  a  man  would  need  to  clamber  out,  and  then  move 
away.  For  a  few  seconds  they  distinguish  the 
swaying  light  that  Gwyllim  carries,  and  then  it 
disappears.  To  their  strained  imagination  it  seems 
that  they  hear  his  terrible  cry  as  he  reaches  the 
quicksand  ;  and  at  the  same  time  they  are  horrified 
to  see  that  Nelto's  boat  is  returning  to  him.  She 
also  has  heard  the  cry,  and  has  gone  back  to  try  to 
save  her  father.  The  light  moves  forward,  slowly  at 
first  and  then  more  quickly,  as  Nelto  seems  to  spring 
ashore.  A  moment  afterwards  it  too  goes  out. 
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Margaret  L.    IJ^oods 

No  other  sign  comes  to  the  watchers,  for  when 
they  turn  their  glasses  to  the  nearer  shore  Shonnin 
also  has  disappeared.  They  keep  their  dreadful 
vigil  till  dawn  ;  and  then  the  mother,  pitifully  hoping 
against  hope,  goes  out  to  seek  her  children. — She 
returns  with  Nelto's  shawl. 

MRS.  GWYLLIM.     Where  are  my  children,  if  they  are 
not  there  ? 

They  cannot  both  be — Owain,  where  are  they  ? 
OWAIN  [Makes  a  gesture  towards  the  sea]  Mother, 

May  God  have  mercy  on  us  ! 
MRS.  GWYLLIM.  No,  not  both, 

Not  both  !     She's  somewhere  in  the  house.     Come, 
Ellen  ! 

She  is  afraid  to  come.     Come,  Nelto,  Nelto  ! 

Shonnin,  my  heart's  adored,  Shonnin,  my  love, 

Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  answer,  Shonnin, 

Shonnin  !  Not  dead — not  dead  ! 
OWAIN.  O  hush — hush — hush  ! 

In  a  summary  of  this  kind  it  is  impossible  to 
indicate  all  the  dramatic  values  of  the  work.  One 
cannot  show,  for  instance,  how  the  characters 
come  to  life,  and  by  touches  bold  or  subtle,  develop 
an  individuality  out  of  which  the  conflict  of  the 
drama  springs.  Even  the  conflict  itself  can  hardly  be 
suggested,  for  an  outline  of  the  story  gives  only  the 
physical  action;  whilst  there  is  a  spiritual  struggle 
in  the  minds  of  at  least  two  of  the  characters  which 

x  321 


Contemporary   *Poets 

is  infinitely  more  tragical.  And  neither  can  one 
hope  to  convey  any  sense  of  the  force  with  which 
the  play  takes  possesssion  of  the  mind.  That  is 
of  course,  its  chief  artistic  excellence  ;  and  on  a 
moment's  consideration  it  is  seen  to  be  a  remarkable 
achievement.  For  although  the  poet  is  working 
towards  a  catastrophe  very  remote  from  ordinary 
experience,  and  in  a  poetic  medium  deeply  stamped 
with  the  marks  of  an  earlier  age,  she  has  succeeded 
in  evoking  a  powerful  illusion  of  reality.  Here  and 
there,  indeed,  are  signs  that  the  handicap  she  has 
imposed  upon  herself  is  almost  too  great.  There 
is,  perhaps,  exaggeration  in  the  portraiture  ot 
Gwyllim  ;  or,  to  put  it  in  another  way,  the  author 
has  not  taken  an  opportunity  to  balance  what  is 
extraordinary  in  this  character  with  the  relief  which 
would  have  suggested  a  complete  personality.  And 
now  and  then  there  is  a  hint  of  incongruity  in  the  use 
of  a  rich  Elizabethan  diction,  even  for  Owain,  who  is 
supposed  to  be  steeped  in  the  literature  of  that  age. 
Those  are  not  radical  defects,  however,  for  they 
do  not  interrupt  the  enjoyment  of  the  drama  :  they 
only  emerge  as  an  afterthought.  If  the  incomplete- 
ness of  Gwyllim  disturbed  our  conviction  of  his 
villainy,  the  whole  plot  would  be  weakened. 
Whereas  we  are  profoundly  convinced  that  the 
wrongs  of  his  family  are  intolerable,  and  the  revolt 
322 


Margaret  L.    Woods 

a  natural  consequence.  Similarly,  if  the  exuberant 
Elizabethan  language  were  really  unfitted  to  the 
spirit  of  the  work,  I  imagine  that  it  would  be  barely 
possible  to  read  the  drama  through,  so  irritating 
would  be  its  ineptitude.  But,  as  a  fact,  the  lan- 
guage wins  upon  us  somehow  as  the  right  expression 
for  these  people.  We  are  probably  satisfied,  sub- 
consciously, that  human  creatures  who  have  been 
thrust  back  to  an  almost  elemental  stage  of  passion 
and  thought,  might  talk  in  some  such  way.  In  any 
case  the  emotional  force  of  that  old  style,  with  its 
vivid  imagery  and  metaphor  and  its  copious  flow, 
does  somehow  suit  the  intensity  and  gloomy 
grandeur  of  this  play. 

I  am  not  sure  that  it  suits  The  Princess  of  Hanover 
quite  so  well — which  is  curious,  considering  that 
we  have,  in  the  royal  theme  of  this  drama,  a  subject 
which  might  be  supposed  to  require  an  ornate  style. 
But  in  treating  the  tragic  love-story  of  Sophia  of 
Zell  the  poet  was  bound  to  reproduce  something  of 
the  atmosphere  of  the  Hanoverian  Court,  with  its 
intrigues  and  indecencies  and  absurd  convention- 
ality. And  at  such  points  poetry  lends  too  large  a 
dignity.  In  those  scenes,  however,  where  as  in 
"  Wild  Justice,"  the  author  comes  to  deal  with  naked 
passion  and  with  turbulent  thought  that  is  driving 
some  person  of  the  drama  to  disaster,  the  instru- 

323 


Contemporary   TPoets 

ment  is  admirably  fitted  to  its  purpose.  Thus, 
in  the  second  half  of  the  play,  when  the  unfortunate 
Princess  at  last  yields  to  her  lover,  Konigsmarck, 
and  plots  with  him  to  escape  from  her  sottish 
husband,  there  are  moments  when  it  seems  that  no 
other  medium  would  serve.  There  is,  for  example, 
the  crucial  scene  in  the  second  act  when  the  en- 
durance of  the  Princess  finally  gives  way.  The 
action  turns  here  directly  towards  its  tragic  cul- 
mination ;  for  the  Princess,  who  had  hitherto  saved 
her  honour  at  the  cost  of  her  love,  suddenly  breaks 
down  at  an  insult  from  the  old  Electress.  The 
revulsion  of  feeling  as  she  flings  restraint  away  carries 
her  to  an  ecstatic  sense  of  liberty.  As  the  Electress 
goes  out  and  she  is  left  alone  with  her  lady-in-wait- 
ing, she  laughs  bitterly  and  declares  that  she  is  now 
free  for  ever  from  the  House  of  Hanover. 

LEONORA.  Weeping,  dear  lady, 

Will  balm  our  misery  better  than  laughter. 
PRINCESS.     Misery  ?     I  am  mad  with  all  the  joy 
Of  all  my  years,  my  youth-consuming  years' 
Hoarded,  unspent  delight. 
Say,  Leonora, 

Where  are  my  wings  ?  Do  they  not  shoot  up  radiant, 
A  splendour  of  snowy  vans,  swimming  the  air 
Just  ere  the  rush  of  rapture  ? 

One  might  quote  a  dozen  such  passages,  in  which 


Margaret  L.    Woods 

a  rush  of  emotion  seems  to  overflow  most  naturally 
into  poetical  extravagance,  There  is  the  rhapsody 
of  the  Electress — significantly,  upon  the  theme  of 
Queen  Elizabeth.  There  are  the  love-scenes,  pas- 
sionate or  tender,  between  Konigsmarck  and  the 
Princess ;  and  the  fierce  moods — of  sheer  avidity  or 
hatred  or  remorse — of  the  courtesan  who  contrives 
their  downfall.  But  the  only  other  f  illustration 
which  need  be  given  is  taken  from  the  last  scene 
of  the  play  ;  and  has  a  further  importance  which 
must  be  noted.  I  mean  the  tragic  irony  which 
underlies  it,  and,  running  throughout  the  scene, 
closes  the  play  on  a  note  of  appalling  mockery. 

The  scene  is  in  the  Electoral  Palace  at  night,  or 
rather  very  early  morning,  when  the  grey  light  is 
slowly  coming.  The  Princess  and  Leonora  have 
come  into  the  outer  hall  of  their  apartments  to 
burn  certain  papers  in  the  fireplace  there.  Their 
plans  are  all  made  for  flight  with  Konigsmarck  on 
the  following  day  ;  and  as  they  kindle  the  fire  they 
talk,  the  Princess  eagerly  and  Leonora  with  more 
caution,  about  their  chances  of  escape.  But  on  the 
very  spot  where  they  stand,  Konigsmarck  had  been 
secretly  assassinated  less  than  an  hour  before.  And 
at  this  moment,  while  they  are  talking,  his  body 
is  being  hastily  bricked  into  a  disused  staircase 
leading  out  of  the  hall.  Faint  sounds  of  the  work 

325 


Contemporary   ^Poets 

reach  the  ears  of  the  ladies  as  they  begin  their  task  ; 
but  though  Leonora  is  disquieted,  the  Princess  will 
not  listen  to  her  fears.  She  is  on  the  crest  of  a 
mood  of  exaltation — 

PRINCESS.  The  night  is  almost  over, 

Soon  will  the  topmost  towers  discern  the  day. 
The  day  !     The  day  !     O  last  of  all  the  days 
I  have  spent  in  extreme  penury  of  joy, 
In  garish  misery,  unhelped  wrong, 
And  in  unpardonable  dishonour.  .  .  • 

Up  lingering  dawn  ! 

Why  dost  thou  creep  so  pale,  like  one  afraid  ? 

I  want  the  sun  !     I  want  to-morrow  ! 
LEONORA.  Madam, 

There  was  a  hand  on  the  door.     What  can  these 
builders 

Be  doing  here  at  this  hour  ? 
PRINCESS.  Why,  they're  building. 

What  does  it  matter  ?     Let  them  build  all  night, 

I  warrant  they'll  not  build  a  wall  so  high 

Love  cannot  overleap  it. 


326 


John  Drinkwater 

EARLY  in  the  third  year  of  the  Great  War 
I  went   to   Birmingham.     The   outlook  at 
that  time  was  dark  ;    and  national  vitality, 
drained    by    the    long    struggle,    burnt    low.     The 
high  ideals  for  which  England  had  seized  the  sword 
had    flickered    and    almost    faded.     The    whirling 
futilities   of   war-service   seemed    driven   solely    by 
the  force  themselves  had  generated  ;    and  that  was 
blind  and  feverish,  a  mad  rotation  in  a  gloom  of 
hatred,  jealousy,  suspicion  and  greed. 

But  in  Birmingham  there  were  lights  burning — 
one  from  the  Art  Gallery,  and  another  from  the 
Repertory  Theatre  of  John  Drinkwater.  The 
pictures  of  Burne-Jones  shone  upon  something 
which  a  citizen  of  Cosmopolis  could  but  be  re- 
freshed to  find — a  homogeneity,  a  clear  type  bred 
fine  and  true  in  Midland  folk.  They  illuminated 
the  source  from  which  their  own  inspiration  had 
been  drawn,  showed  whence  had  come  to  the 
painter  his  vision  of  a  marriage  of  physical  grandeur 
with  spiritual  grace,  and  revealed  it  as  the  essential 
thing  about  these  dwellers  in  the  heart  of  England. 
But  while  throwing  into  relief  that  union,  making 
it  seem  almost  typical  and  characteristic,  the 
pictures  stressed  another  aspect  of  the  truth  in 

327 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

their  austerity.  For,  interpreting  and  interpreted 
by  the  life  around  them,  they  showed  that  though 
imperfect  humanity  could,  after  all,  arrive  but 
seldom  at  the  perfect  union  of  body  and  soul,  and 
though  modern  industrialism  might  work  sad  havoc 
with  that  fine  physique,  yet  it  was  possible — difficult 
but  possible — for  the  spirit  to  survive  that  ravage. 
And  the  survival  of  the  spirit  was  perhaps  the 
clearest  ray  that  those  pictures  threw  over  Bir- 
mingham city,  evoking  kindred  colour  in  its  busy 
Midland  life. 

At  that  moment  the  other  light  I  spoke  of,  the 
Repertory  Theatre  of  John  Drinkwater,  was  known 
to  me  in  a  quite  different  sense.  Its  art  was  life  ; 
an  escape  from  the  death-in-life  in  which  all  the 
world  was  furiously  whirling.  Only  within  its 
walls  could  one  get  out  of  the  gloom  cast  by  dead 
hopes,  dead  ideals  and  dead  men.  Only  there, 
or  so  it  seemed,  could  one  breathe  a  living  air 
and  feel  the  healthful  sunlight  and  join  in  the 
energies  of  sane  living.  It  spoke  no  special  mes- 
sage, at  the  time  ;  but  it  was  a  place  of  robust 
vitality,  where  one  went  in  the  intervals  of  seem- 
ingly futile  labour,  and  drank  up  draughts  of  life. 
That  was  all,  then.  But  in  retrospect,  and  with 
fuller  knowledge,  one  salutes  its  beam  also  as  the 
light  of  the  conquering  spirit,  and  sees  it  for  a 

328 


John   Drinkwater 

symbol  of  the  same  union  of  which  the  art  of  Burne- 
Jones  had  spoken. 

But  it  is  here  that  Mr  Drinkwater's  work  comes 
in.  One  had  known  of  him  before  the  war,  of 
course,  as  a  lyrical  poet,  as  the  author  of  Cromwell^ 
and  as  the  writer  of  at  least  one  successful  play  for 
the  Pilgrim  Players  of  Birmingham.  He  was  already 
recognized  by  his  compeers,  and  familiar  to  a  certain 
public  ;  for  it  was  impossible  to  mistake  the  paternity 
of  lines  like  these  : 

Come  tell  us,  you  that  travel  far 
With  brave  or  shabby  merchandise, 

Have  you  saluted  any  star 

That  goes  uncourtiered  in  the  skies  ? 

If  the  grey  dust  is  over  all, 

And  stars  and  leaves  and  wings  forgot, 

And  your  blood  holds  no  festival — 
Go  out  from  us ;  we  need  you  not. 

But  if  you  are  immoderate  men, 

Zealots  of  joy,  the  salt  and  sting 
And  savour  of  life  upon  you — then 

We  call  you  to  our  counselling. 

And  we  will  hew  the  holy  boughs 

To  make  us  level  rows  of  oars, 
And  we  will  set  our  shining  prows 

For  strange  and  unadventured  shores. 

329 


Contemporary    *Poets 

Where  the  great  tideways  swiftliest  run 
We  will  be  stronger  than  the  strong, 

And  sack  the  cities  of  the  sun, 
And  spend  our  booty  in  a  song. 

Apollo  is  their  undoubted  father ;  and  yet, 
somehow,  one  did  not  pay  much  heed.  I  think 
the  reason  (apart  from  one's  own  sheer  dullness) 
might  have  been  that  this  poetry  was  too  poetic. 
It  had  almost  too  fine  a  point  upon  it.  That  seems 
a  heresy,  and  would  be  one  in  truth  if  it  implied 
that  a  poet  ever  dare  neglect  the  form  of  his  art. 
But  there  is  such  a  thing  as  undistinguished  per- 
fection, and  the  earlier  work  of  Mr  Drinkwater  was 
rather  like  that.  Not  really  perfect,  nor  quite 
undistinguished,  of  course,  but  regular  with  an 
immobile  regularity  in  which  the  primal  fire  was 
apt  to  burn  low.  The  fault  did  his  verse  a  double 
injury,  hiding  from  the  indifferent  its  thought 
content,  and  from  its  admirers  the  nature  of  that 
content.  It  was  therefore  a  comprehensible  judg- 
ment five  or  six  years  ago  (though  perhaps  not  an 
intelligent  one)  to  say  that  Mr  Drinkwater  was 
living  in  his  time  but  was  not  of  it  :  that  writing 
contemporaneously  with  others  of  his  own  genera- 
tion, he  was  yet  not  a  contemporary  poet.  So 
little  did  he  bear  the  mark  of  the  spirit  of  the  time, 
and  so  placid  were  the  features  of  his  Muse. 

330 


John   Drinkwater 

In  1914  Mr  Drinkwater  published  a  volume  into 
which  he  had  gathered  all  the  poems  prior  to  that 
date  which  he  wishes  to  preserve,  except  Cromwell ; 
and  perhaps  one  might  date  from  that  time  the 
change.  But  I  prefer  to  herald  it  in  a  poem  called 
"  The  Fires  of  God,"  first  published  about  1912. 
This  appears  to  be  a  piece  of  spiritual  autobiography  ; 
but  whether  or  not  it  be  a  record  of  actual  experi- 
ence, it  remains  the  most  succinct  statement  that 
we  possess  in  poetry  of  the  modern  position  in 
religion  and  philosophy.  In  it  Mr  Drinkwater  is 
sealed  a  poet  of  his  own  time  by  the  spirit  of  his 
time.  Weighing  at  once  the  arrogant  claims  and 
the  profound  abasements  of  the  old  philosophies, 
cleaving  a  middle  way  between  the  Heaven  and 
Hell  of  the  old  religions,  he  takes  his  stand  on  the 
good  earth  and  sees  himself  neither  as  demi-god 
nor  devil,  but  as  an  integral  member  of  a  unity,  all 
the  multitudinous  parts  of  which  are  singing  together 
for  delight  in  the  beauty  of  the  whole  : 

As  I  beheld— 

"With  a  new  wisdom,  tranquil,  asking  not 
For  mystic  revelation — this  glory  long  forgot, 
This  re-discovered  triumph  of  the  earth 
In  high  creative  will  and  beauty's  pride 
Established  beyond  the  assaulting  years, 
It  came  to  me,  a  music  that  compelled 
Surrender  of  all  tributory  fears, 

331 


Contemporary    'Poets 

Full-throated,  fierce,  and  rhythmic  with  the  wide 
Beat  of  the  pilgrim  winds  and  labouring  seas, 
Sent  up  from  all  the  harbouring  ways  of  earth 
Wherein  the  travelling  feet  of  men  have  trod, 
Mounting  the  firmamental  silences 
And  challenging  the  golden  gates  of  God. 

That  is  his  hymn  of  ecstasy  in  the  revelation  ; 
but  it  is  characteristic  of  this  poet  that  ecstasy 
should  be  touched  to  further  ends  than  simple  joy 
in  itself.  And  one  is  arrested  by  the  fact  that  the 
end  of  exultation  here — this  being,  as  would  appear, 
the  record  of  a  spiritual  crisis — is  the  act  of  walk- 
ing out  into  the  street  and  shouldering  his  bit  of 
humanity's  burden  there  : 

Henceforth  my  hands  are  lifted  to  the  touch 
Of  hands  that  labour  with  me,  and  my  heart 
Hereafter  to  the  world's  heart  shall  be  set 
And  its  own  pain  forget. 

That  is  a  passage  whose  significance  bears  both 
on  the  man  and  his  age.  One  has  seen  the  same 
symbolic  act  in  other  contemporary  poets.  But 
beyond  observing  that  the  humanitarianism  of  this 
poet  is  a  conscious  principle,  one  ought  not  to 
stress  it,  just  because  the  artistic  impulse  has  for- 
bidden him  to  give  a  prominent  place  to  anything 
so  abstract  in  his  work.  Artistic  integrity  is  strong 
in  him,  and  is  leading  him  now  more  and  more 
332 


John   Drinkwater 

towards  Drama  for  vivid  and  concrete  expression. 
It  is  the  destined  path  of  the  poets,  the  inevitable 
sequence  by  which  the  lyrical  intensity  of  youth  is 
succeeded  by  a  more  critical,  observant  and  reflec- 
tive faculty,  operating  in  a  larger  world  of  experi- 
ence. It  is  not  for  nothing  that  Mr  Drinkwater  is 
a  poet  of  Warwickshire,  of  delight  in  life,  of  keen 
sense-impressions  and  swift  response  to  them,  of 
gentle  and  homely  scenes  of  nature,  of  hearty 
country  folk,  of  friendship  and  of  extravagant 
passion.  He  is  an  inheritor,  and  this  fair  body  of 
his  verse  came  out  of  the  heart  of  England.  Its 
qualities  are  specifically  English.  It  has  dignity, 
sweetness  and  nobility,  but  it  has  also  pith,  vigour 
and  clarity.  Its  imagination  is  sunny  :  there  are 
no  mystical  shadows  haunting  it,  and  it  does  not 
ever  fly  high  enough  nor  deep  enough  to  reach  the 
outer  darkness.  Its  imagery  is  bright  and  clear,  so 
that  even  a  thought  of  "  Symbols  "  is  given  the 
shape  and  stir  of  life  : 

I  imagined  measureless  time  in  a  day, 
And  starry  space  in  a  wagon-road, 
And  the  treasure  of  all  good  harvests  lay 
In  the  single  seed  that  the  sower  sowed. 

My  garden-wind  had  driven  and  havened  again 
All  ships  that  ever  had  gone  to  sea, 

333 


Contemporary    'Poets 

And  I  saw  the  glory  of  all  dead  men 

In  the  shadow  that  went  by  the  side  of  me. 

And  even  an  idea  so  abstract  as  the  eternal  lament 
for  the  passing  of  beauty  is  caught,  half  playfully, 
into  a  series  of  shining  figures : 

Lord  Rameses  of  Egypt  sighed 
Because  a  summer  evening  passed ; 

And  little  Ariadne  cried 

That  summer  fancy  fell  at  last 

To  dust ;  and  young  Verona  died 
When  beauty's  hour  was  overcast. 

Theirs  was  the  bitterness  we  know 
Because  the  clouds  of  hawthorn  keep 

So  short  a  state,  and  kisses  go 
To  tombs  unfathomably  deep, 

While  Rameses  and  Romeo 
And  little  Ariadne  sleep. 

So  one  thinks  of  this  poetry  as  of  a  healthy  body 
ruled  by  a  serene  mind  :  its  temper  sane,  its  manner 
gracious,  planned  on  noble  lines  which  are  shaping 
toward  perfection  by  a  rigorous  discipline.  And 
one  likes  to  believe  it  peculiarly  English.  But  there 
is  something  else  ;  and  in  the  strength  and  per- 
sistence of  that  other  quality  one  seems  to  come 
still  closer  to  its  origin  in  the  Puritan  spirit  of 
mid-England.  Recall  the  work  by  which  Mr 
Drinkwater  is  popularly  known — his  most  con- 

334 


John   Drinkwater 

siderable  poem,  Cromwell^  and  his  most  successful 
play,  Abraham  Lincoln.  The  mere  names  will  give 
the  clue  to  the  outstanding  thing  about  their  author. 
The  fact  that  he  chose  those  two  men  from  all  others 
for  commemoration  and  the  worship  of  his  art  is 
significant  enough.  But  when  one  remembers  the 
impression  which  those  works  leave  upon  the  mind, 
the  thing  which  stays  after  the  sonorous  music  has 
passed  and  the  action  is  done,  one  salutes  again  the 
same  survival  of  the  spirit  which  shone  as  a  beacon 
in  Birmingham  during  the  Great  War. 

The  Cromwell  poem  is  lyrical  in  essence  and 
largely  so  in  form.  It  is  designed  to  tell  in  twelve 
movements  or  episodes  of  the  rising  of  Cromwell 
and  his  Ironsides,  the  battles  in  which  the  king's 
armies  are  defeated,  the  trial  and  execution  of 
Charles,  the  final  victory  of  the  Puritan  cause, 
and  the  death  of  Cromwell.  There  are  five  inter- 
ludes between  the  principal  episodes,  where  the 
poet,  after  the  manner  of  a  Greek  chorus,  muses 
upon  the  event  and  its  significance.  A  prologue 
nobly  states  the  theme  in  blank  verse,  and  an 
epilogue  lightens  the  tragic  intensity  of  the  finished 
tale  in  a  lyrical  finale. 

A  great  charm  of  the  poem  is  the  variety  of 
measure  used.  The  narrative  pieces  are  not  all,  as 
one  would  expect,  in  blank  verse ;  and  of  the  three 

335 


Contemporary    'Poets 

or  four  episodes  related  in  this  form,  no  two  are 
quite  in  the  same  manner.  So  with  the  rhymed 
pieces  :  a  different  measure  has  been  made  for  each, 
to  fit  its  own  mood  or  circumstance  ;  and  even 
stanzas  which  have  a  superficial  resemblance  will  be 
found  to  vary  in  rhyme  or  rhythm,  in  the  number 
or  length  or  stress  of  the  verses. 

One  might  attempt  a  short  selection,  to  give  an 
idea  of  the  changeful  form  and  constant  spirit  of 
this  poem.  Thus,  the  prologue  tells  that  the 
theme  is  to  be  of  "  stern  and  memorable  days  "  and 

Of  one  who  watched  the  shadows  folding  in 
All  beautiful  goings  in  the  lives  of  men, 
And  heard  the  arrogant  mastery  on  the  lips 
Of  spoilers  of  the  spirit's  husbandry. 

Then  one  might  cut  a  fragment  from  the  first 
interlude,  to  illustrate  a  thought  which  often 
preoccupies  this  poet.  The  interlude  is  written 
in  praise  of  great  men  ;  but  it  comes  back  to  the 
sense  of  human  frailty  which  underlies  also  the 
poet's  reading  of  the  character  of  Lincoln — the 
perception  that  these  Titans  are  but  earth-born 
after  all: 

We  are  men,  and  godhead  is  far,  and  it  shall  not  be 
That  men  as  gods  without  flaw  shall  travel  to  death, 
Yet  a  rumour  of  stars  is  with  us,  the  light  of  a  sea 
No  ship  has  ventured.  .  .  . 

336 


John   Drinkwater 

"  The  Call  "  finds  Cromwell  in  "  the  middle  watches 
of  his  days  "  : 

Oliver  Cromwell,  keeper  of  the  gate 

Of  one  proud  temple  yet  inviolate, 

Looked  upwards  to  the  stars  and  prayed  that  then 

He  might  not  be  unworthy  among  men 

To  serve.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  "  Lord,  might  I  avail 
But  as  the  meanest  of  the  men  whose  laws 
Are  Thine  alone,  Thy  peace  their  sole  estate ; 
My  sword,  my  will,  my  love  are  consecrate 
Unto  Thy  cause,  my  God,  unto  Thy  cause." 

In  "  The  Coming "  Cromwell  answers  the  call 
and  realizes  that  the  issue  is  "  Charles,  King  of 
England  "  : 

O  place  of  man,  high  on  the  windy  scar 
That  o'ertops  desolation  and  the  void ; 
O  heart  of  man  that  knoweth  not  the  end 
Of  all  thy  pride  though  fiery  witnesses 
Are  all  about  thee,  loud  in  prophecy. 

In  "  Edgehill  "  the  king's  army,  merry  and  gaily 
dressed,  goes  followed  by  the  "  great  silent  shadow  " 
of  Cromwell's  men.  There  is  a  notable  portrait  of 
Charles  here  : 

Rode  Charles  the  king,  dreamer  of  twisted  dreams, 
Hearing  all  counsels,  speaking  all  men  fair, 
Prey  to  all  bidders  for  a  kingly  pledge, 

Y  337 


Contemporary    "Poefs 

Yet  governed  ever  by  one  sovran  rule — 
The  tattered  sway  of  his  own  motley  heart. 

Then  comes  "  The  Gathering  of  the  Ironsides,"  a 
swinging  battle-song  : 

From  the  north  to  the  south  he  travelled,  and  out  to  the 

east  and  west, 
And  cried  as  a  fiery  prophet  in  lands  where  the  heathen 

rest, — 
"The  God  of  Battles  calls  you,  and  the  service  of  God  is 

best." 

The  varying  fortunes  on  "  Marston  Moor  "  close  in 
victory  for  the  cause  of  freedom  ;  and  in  the  "  Idyll  " 
which  follows,  Cromwell  the  warrior  is  seen  com- 
passionately caring  for  the  widow  of  a  Royalist 
enemy : 

A  quiet  man  mid  quiet  men 
He  was  j  he  took  her  from  the  place, 
Not  courtly  was  his  hand,  no  grace 
Of  word  mocked  consolation  then, 
Yet  as  he  helped  her  helplessness 
A  strong  and  wonderful  gentleness 
Was  on  him.  .  .  . 

There  is  the  issue  of  "  Naseby,"  when  Ireton's  line 
is  routed,  and  defeat  of  the  Parliamentarians  seems 
imminent : 

But  in  that  hour  when  exultation  rose 

In  a  great  shout  along  the  prevailing  ranks 

338 


John   Drinkwater 

A  sudden  blast  smote  back  the  waves  of  war, 
As  once  it  had  so  smitten  on  the  day 
Of  Marston  field  .  .  . 

.  .  .  till  the  noonday  sun 
Looked  down  upon  the  legions  of  the  king 
Scattered  and  stark,  a  memory — no  more. 

In  the  fourth  interlude,  "Of  War,"  the  ideal 
spectator  muses  on  the  cause  and  motive  of  war. 
To  put  right  a  great  wrong  a  man  may  be  com- 
pelled to  raise  his  hand  to  kill  his  enemy ;  but  to 
deal  in  death  as  a  trade  is  the  last  iniquity  : 

So  signed  is  your  cause  ?     Do  you  dare  to  steer 
So  rotten  a  ship  on  so  stern  a  stream  ? 

The  soldiers  of  Cromwell's  army  come  to  London 
to  weigh  their  cause  against  the  defeated  king  : 

And  well  the  curled  king  may  frown, 
And  well  the  queen  in  her  scented  gown, 
For  twenty  thousand  men  are  marching 
Along  the  streets  of  London  town. 

Charles  is  tried  at  Westminster  in  the  bitter  winter 
weather,  and  judgment  is  passed  on  him  : 

Hushed  were  the  judges  then;  the  men-at-arms 
Stood  motionless  as  graven  soldiery 
In  some  old  woven  fable,  and  no  sound 
Was  heard  save  winter's  trouble  in  the  air. 

The  fifth  interlude  muses  upon  tyranny.  It  is 
not  the  tyrant  alone  who  sins,  but  every  man 

339 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

who  bears  tyranny  patiently  and  strikes  no  blow 
for  freedom  : 

By  these  things  suffered  in  your  fatherland, 

By  Milton's  word  and  Cromwell's  winnowing  hand, 

By  your  green  ways  and  shining  leagues  of  foam, 

By  England's  name,  by  Athens  and  by  Rome 

Let  tyrants  bear  their  brand, 

Rise  up  and  strike  your  spoilers  and  strike  home. 

"  Dunbar  "  is  fought  and  won  :  at  "  Worcester  " 
the  "  Ironside  sword  is  sheathed  "  ;  and  now  Crom- 
well comes  to  the  end  of  all  fighting  : 

Thy  loving-kindness  has  been  great, 
And  great  Thy  blessing  of  the  sword, 
Thy  hand  has  prospered  my  estate, 
I  was  not  worthy,  Lord. 

Not  any  worth  of  mine  I  trust, 
Nor  love  that  I  have  given  Thee, 
But  Thy  sweet  spirit  in  my  dust, 
Thy  love  that  is  in  me. 

From  travel  in  the  dusty  ways, 
From  strife  of  speech  and  sounding  sword, 
I  come  undaunted  of  the  days 
Into  Thy  keeping,  Lord. 

Such  a  selection,  of  course,  does  violence  to  the 
poet's  design  ;  but  it  does  at  least  indicate  what  one 
has  figured  as  the  fine  union  of  body  and  soul  in 
this  work.  Generous  emotion,  sensitiveness  and 

34° 


John   Drinkwater 

acute  perception  of  beauty  are  shaped  patiently 
into  noble  form,  but  the  living  breath  in  it  is  the 
breath  of  the  spirit,  and  the  spirit  is  that  of  Puritan 
England.  Now  I  am  not  suggesting  any  theological 
connotation  here.  Mr  Drinkwater  frequently  uses 
the  word  '  God,'  even  where  there  is  no  dramatic 
urgency,  as  one  of  those  earlier  Puritans  might  have 
named  it.  There  is,  too,  a  characteristic  humility 
which  is  religious  in  its  basis ;  and  the  hymn  on 
which  Cromwell's  life  closes  is  the  essential  music 
of  the  Christian  religion.  But  the  spirit  of  this 
work  cannot  be  narrowed  to  any  theology  :  it  is 
as  much  bigger  than  that  as  those  old  Puritans  were 
bigger  than  their  reputed  creed.  One  aspect  of  it 
is  seen  in  the  piece  called  "  Challenge  "  : 

You  fools  behind  the  panes  who  peer 
At  the  strong  black  anger  of  the  sky, 
Come  out  and  feel  the  storm  swing  by, 

Aye,  take  its  blow  on  your  lips,  and  hear 
The  wind  in  the  branches  cry. 

It  is  seen  in  a  fierce  love  of  freedom,  in  the  interlude 
"  Of  Tyranny  "  which  shames  a  coward  patience, 
in  "  The  Fires  of  God,"  burning  up  self-pity  and 
bidding  a  man  to  service.  It  is  seen,  too,  in  the 
courage  of  the  short  play  called  X  =  O,  acted  at 
Birmingham  during  the  war,  in  which  'the  poet 
cries  out  against  War's  madness  and  hideous  waste. 

341 


Contemporary    'Poets 

Again  it  is  seen  in  the  profounder  courage  of  the 
enigma  called  The  God  of  Quiet ;  and  in  the  con- 
ception of  the  character  of  Alice  in  the  play  called 
The  Storm. 

I  do  not  know  anything  in  modern  poetry  more 
true  and  lovely  than  this  little  play  :  though  it  is 
pitiful  truth  and  sorrowful  loveliness.  Dramatic- 
ally, too,  it  seems  to  me  the  best  thing  that  Mr 
Drinkwater  has  done,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  there 
is  little  action  in  it.  Its  substance  is,  indeed,  of 
actual  inaction — of  waiting,  of  taut  suspense. 

The  scene  is  a  shepherd's  cabin  on  the  Welsh 
hills  at  night,  with  a  furious  storm  raging  outside. 
The  shepherd  had  gone  out  hours  before,  and  has 
not  returned  :  he  is  lost  somewhere  in  the  storm. 
His  wife  is  waiting  in  intense  anxiety.  She  has  sent 
out  searchers  with  lanterns  and  has  built  up  the 
fire  to  prepare  hot  water  against  her  husband's 
return.  Her  young  sister  and  an  old  neighbour- 
woman  keep  her  company ;  and  while  the  old  woman 
reiterates  with  the  relentless  realism  of  age  that  the 
shepherd  must  by  this  time  have  died  from  the 
storm's  violence,  the  wife  vehemently  denies  that 
her  husband  can  be  dead. 

I  said  that  there  was  practically  no  action  in  the 
play  ;  but  indeed  the  action  is  fierce  and  continu- 
ous. It  is,  however,  on  the  spiritual  plane.  It  is 
342 


John   Drinkwater 

a  heart-breaking  struggle  between  age  and  youth, 
between  illusion  and  reality,  between  love  and 
despair,  between  hope  and  an  inescapable  logic. 
And  this  against  a  consciousness  of  that  other 
imagined  struggle  out  on  the  hills,  between  a  man 
and  the  immense  force  of  the  elements : 

ALICE.  You  know  that  he's  not  dead — 

I  know  that  too — if  only  that  dark  rage 
Howling  out  there  would  leave  tormenting  me. 

The  character  of  Alice  is  very  nobly  imagined, 
and  she  is  presented  with  great  force  and  subtlety. 
Under  her  passionate  denial  of  the  truth  the  con- 
viction of  it  grows,  creeping  into  her  distraction  and 
fear,  and  leaping  out  when  in  the  lull  of  an  un- 
guarded moment  she  turns  to  her  young  sister  : 

ALICE.  .  .  .  My  little  Joan, 

Do  you  know  at  all  what  a  man  becomes  to  a  woman  ? 

...  A  woman  takes  a  mate, 
And  like  the  patient  builder  governs  him 
Into  the  goodman  known  through  a  country-side, 
Or  the  wise  friend  that  the  neighbours  will  seek  out, 

.  .  .  And  when  he  is  dead 

It  comes  to  her  that  the  strength  she  has  given  him 
To  make  him  a  gallant  figure  among  them  all 
Has  been  the  thing  that  has  filled  her,  and  she  lonely 
Or  gossiping  with  the  folk,  or  about  the  house. 
SARAH.  When  he  is  dead. 

343 


Contemporary 


ALICE.  Why  should  I  think  of  that  ? 

I  am  crazed,  I  say,  because  of  the  madness  loosed 
And  beating  against  the  panes.     He  is  not  dead  — 

It  is  a  fine  stroke  of  tragic  irony  by  which  there 
breaks  upon  the  scene  at  this  point  a  young  stranger, 
taking  refuge  from  the  storm  ;  and  it  serves  the 
dramatist  to  complete  his  presentment  of  Alice. 
The  young  man  is  exhilarated  by  his  fight  with  the 
wind,  and  ecstatic  in  his  relief  at  escaping  from  it. 
Ignorant  of  their  trouble  and  blinded  by  his  own 
exuberance,  he  praises  the  god  of  the  storm  in  a 
lyrical  rapture  to  the  silent  women.  Nor  does  he 
cease  when  Alice,  controlling  herself  and  seeking  to 
check  him,  interposes  quietly  that  the  storm  is  no 
thing  for  praise,  but  a  treacherous  fury.  Again  he 
launches  on  a  flight  of  exaltation.  And  then  Alice, 
the  agony  of  her  suspense  tearing  at  her  courtesy, 
turns  upon  him  : 

Stranger,  I'd  give 

Comely  words  to  any  who  knocks  at  the  door. 
You  are  welcome  ;   but  leave   your  praising  of  this 

blight. 

You  safely  gabbing  of  sly  and  cruel  furies, 
Like  a  child  laughing  before  a  cage  of  tigers. 
You  with  your  fancy  talk  of  lords  and  gods 
And  your  hero-veins  —  young  man,  do  you  know  this 

night 
Is  eating  through  my  bones  into  the  marrow, 

344 


John   Drinkwater 

And  creeping  round  my  brain  till  thought  is  dead, 

And  making  my  heart  the  oldest  thing  of  any  ? 

Do  you  see  those  lights  ? 
THE  STRANGER.          They  seemed  odd  moving  there 

In  a  storm  like  this. 
ALICE.  A  man  is  lost  on  the  hills. 
THE  STRANGER.  That's  bad.     But  who  ? 

ALICE.  My  man  is  lost  on  the  hills. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  because 
this  poetry  is  always  serious  that  it  is  therefore 
always  solemn.  It  is  true  that  Mr  Drinkwater 
knows  how  to  handle  tragedy,  and  has  often  a 
beautiful  gravity  of  manner.  It  is  also  true  that 
sometimes  his  sonority  is  a  little  pompous,  that 
there  is  an  occasional  redundance  of  phrase  and 
rhetorical  emphasis.  But  his  Muse  is  riant  and 
bountiful  as  Warwickshire  meadows.  It  is  sweetened 
by  laughter  and  fellowship.  It  does  not  love 
twilight  and  melancholy  and  mysticism,  as  does  the 
Celtic  Muse  ;  and  charm  of  that  kind  does  not 
therefore  distinguish  it.  It  is  not  contemplative  hi 
its  attitude  or  subtle  in  its  expression.  It  belongs  to 
the  cheerful  day,  is  vital  and  vivid  and  is  in  touch 
with  the  source  of  comedy.  And  if  the  idea  of 
"  Holiness  "  is  a  familiar  one  to  this  poet,  it  is  of 
a  special  kind  such  as  he  has  made  this  song  about : 

If  all  the  carts  were  painted  gay 

And  all  the  streets  swept  clean, 

345 


Contemporary  *Poets 

And  all  the  children  came  to  play 
By  hollyhocks,  with  green 
Grasses  to  grow  between, 

If  all  the  houses  looked  as  though 
Some  heart  were  in  their  stones, 

If  all  the  people  that  we  know 

Were  dressed  in  scarlet  gowns, 
With  feathers  in  their  crowns, 

I  think  this  gaiety  would  make 
A  spiritual  land. 

I  think  that  holiness  would  take 
This  laughter  by  the  hand, 
Till  both  should  understand. 


346 


Michael  Field 

Katharine  Harris  Bradley  and 
Edith  Emma   Cooper 

WE  all  know  now  that  the  name  of  Michael 
Field  spells  tragedy,  and  that  it  covers 
the  story  of  two  lives  which  burned  in 
a  single  flame  of  creative  ardour  right  up  to  the 
gates  of  death.  But  it  is  a  veiled  history  ;  and 
although  we  may  some  day  know  more  about  its 
poignant  joy  and  pain,  I  imagine  that  the  veil  will 
never  be  completely  rent.  It  has  been  lifted  once 
or  twice  for  the  fraction  of  a  moment ;  and  now  and 
then  a  crumb  of  knowledge  is  dropped  to  the  hungry 
inquirer.  But  the  story  of  that  unique  fellowship 
and  surpassing  love  could  never  be  fully  told.  Yet, 
merely  to  gather  the  spare  ftiorsels  of  fact  gives 
warrant  of  heroic  stature,  and  sustenance  to  a  robust 
denial  that  women  are  incapable  of  greatness  in  art 
and  comradeship. 

The  two  ladies  who  used  the  nom  de  plume  of 
Michael  Field  were  named  Katharine  Bradley  and 
Edith  Cooper.  They  were  related  as  aunt  and 
niece,  though  there  was  not  a  great  disparity  of  age 
between  them ;  and  neither  of  them  married. 
They  lived  together  and  were  devoted  to  each  other 

347 


Contemporary  'Poets 

in  a  very  real  sense.  They  called  each  other 
familiarly  Michael  and  Henry,  Katharine  Bradley, 
the  elder,  being  Michael.  Each  was  poetically 
gifted,  though  with  a  certain  dissimilarity ;  and 
they  vowed  themselves,  early  in  their  career,  to 
literary  co-operation.  The  vow  was  kept  with 
perfect  loyalty.  They  worked  together  for  upward 
of  thirty  years,  producing  in  that  time  twenty-five 
poetical  dramas,  in  which  it  is  all  but  impossible  to 
discover  evidence  of  a  double  authorship,  and  seven 
volumes  of  lyrics. 

Their  first  two  plays — Callirrhoe  and  Fair  Rosa- 
mund, were  published  in  one  book  in  1884.  Their 
last  drama,  In  the  Name  of  Time,  came  out  in  the 
summer  of  1919.  But  before  it  appeared  both 
poets  had  died.  The  younger,  Edith  Cooper,  was 
attacked  by  cancer  in  1912  ;  and  while  nursing  her, 
Katharine  Bradley  «was  also  seized  by  the  same 
disease.  The  affection  between  these  two  friends 
and  their  heroic  temper  may  be  judged  by  two 
facts.  Both  refused  to  the  end  the  alleviation  of 
morphia  ;  and  Katharine  Bradley,  who  only  sur- 
vived her  niece  by  less  than  a  year,  continued  to 
nurse  her  till  her  death,  successfully  hiding  the 
torture  which  she  was  herself  enduring  from  her 
and  from  the  world.  Edith  Cooper  died  in 
December  1913,  and  Katharine  Bradley  nine  months 
348 


Michael  Field 

afterwards.  She,  the  fiery-hearted,  who  had  chosen 
Michael  for  her  patron  saint,  was  buried  on 
St  Michael's  day,  1914. 

It  is  a  story  whose  depths  and  heights  we  can 
but  feebly  guess  at ;  and  one  passes  from  the  per- 
sonal aspect  of  it  in  awe  at  human  magnificence. 
We  are  stayed  from  touching  it — except  perhaps 
to  note  three  steps  in  that  via  dolorosa  which 
the  poet  herself  has  marked.  Thus  there  are  two 
poems  written  by  Michael  during  Henry's  illness : 

She  is  singing  to  Thee,  Dominel 

Dost  hear  her  now  ? 

She  is  singing  to  Thee  from  a  burning  throat, 
And  melancholy  as  the  owl's  love-note ; 
She  is  singing  to  Thee  from  the  utmost  bough 

Of  the  tree  of  Golgotha,  where  it  is  bare, 
And  the  fruit  torn  from  it  that  fruited  there : 
She  is  singing.  .  .  .  Canst  Thou  stop  the  strain, 

The  homage  of  such  pain  ? 
Dotniney  stoop  down  to  her  again ! 

The  second  poem  is  called  "  Caput  tuum  ut 
Carmelus  "  : 

I  watch  the  arch  of  her  head 

As  she  turns  away  from  me.  .  .  . 

I  would  I  were  with  the  dead, 
Drowned  with  the  dead  at  sea, 

All  the  waves  rocking  over  me ! 

349 


Contemporary  ^Poets 

Oh,  what  can  Death  have  to  do 
With  a  curve  that  is  drawn  so  fine, 
With  a  curve  that  is  drawn  as  true 
As  the  mountains'  crescent  line  ?  .   .  . 
Let  me  be  hid  where  the  dust  falls  fine  ! 

To  comment  on  that  would  be  to  profane  it ;  and 
of  this  other  it  is  only  permitted  to  marvel  at  a 
wonder — that  in  the  last  tortured  days  of  a  life  so 
bereaved  the  singing  spirit  could  still  conquer. 

THE  ONLY  ONE 

I  think  of  her 
As  the  fastness  of  hepatica, 
The  little  fort  of  blue  that  held  itself  so  fine, 

So  lightsome  and  so  sure, 

In  that  garden-plot  of  mine  where  the  snow  spread. 
I  cannot  take  anything  else,  or  instead. 

I  think  of  her 
By  the  plot  where  I  miss  my  hepatica. 

But  there  is  another  aspect  of  this  history  which 
we  may  examine  a  little  more  closely,  partly  because 
it  is  a  question  of  art  and  therefore  impersonal ; 
and  partly  because  the  poet  herself  has  raised  the 
veil  by  a  hair's-breadth  here  and  there,  giving  a 
fleeting  glimpse  within.  They  will  be  found,  these 
peeps  at  identity,  scattered  among  the  lyrics.  It 
is  only  there,  of  course,  that  the  subjective  element 
which  induces  self -betrayal  can  exist ;  and  even 
there  it  operates  but  rarely.  From  this  fragmentary 

350 


Michael  Field 

evidence,  however,  I  incline  to  think  that  Michael, 
the  elder  of  the  two  women,  was  the  leading  spirit : 
that  her  genius  was  intense,  ardent  and  creative  : 
that  she  was  the  initiator  ;  and  that  she  was  respon- 
sible for  most  of  the  lyrics,  the  greater  part  of  the 
verse  of  the  tragedies,  and  the  conception  of  the 
protagonist  in  almost  every  case.  To  Henry  would 
therefore  belong  the  constructive  share  of  the  work, 
the  critical  faculty  by  which  it  was  tested  and 
shaped,  and,  of  course,  a  great  deal  of  verse.  This 
view  of  the  collaboration  is  indeed  supported  by 
another  fact  gathered  from  those  who  know.  But 
keeping  to  internal  evidence,  I  cull  three  short 
passages  from  the  volume  entitled  Underneath  the 
Bough,  published  in  1893. 

The  first  is  a  precious  record,  being  nothing  less 
than  the  marriage  testament  of  these  two  souls : 

It  was  deep  April,  and  the  morn 

Shakspere  was  born ; 
The  world  was  on  us,  pressing  sore ; 
My  love  and  I  took  hands  and  swore 

Against  the  world  to  be 
Poets  and  lovers  ever  more. 

The  second  is  a  document  of  great  interest  to  the 
student  of  the  art  of  poetry  : 

A  girl, 

Her  soul  a  deep  wave-pearl 

351 


Contemporary  T^oets 

.  .  .  and  our  souls  so  knit, 
I  leave  a  page  half-writ — 

The  work  begun 

Will  be  to  heaven's  conception  done 
If  she  come  to  it. 

That  passage  testifies  to  complete  union  and 
suggests  a  powerful  originating  impulse  in  the 
elder  woman  which  drew  the  deep  affinity  of  the 
other  into  the  fire  of  her  inspiration.  It  suggests 
a  great  deal,  too,  about  a  fine  submission  of  great 
gifts,  of  the  role  of  finisher  which  Edith  Cooper 
seems  to  have  played,  of  a  large  constructive  ability 
and  of  much  patient  labour. 

The  third  passage  which  I  have  chosen  is  one  of 
several  that  reveal  the  tenderness  existing  between 
the  two  poets,  and  the  adoration  which  Michael 
gave  to  the  person  and  the  genius  of  her  yoke-fellow. 

When  my  lady  sleeping  lies, 

Her  sweet  breaths  her  lips  unbar ; 

This  when  King  Apollo  spies, 
With  dream  footfall,  not  to  mar 
The  dear  sleep, 

Through  the  rosy  doors  ajar, 

He  with  golden  thoughts  doth  creep. 

Not  in  any  of  the  lyrics,  however,  but  in  one  of 
the  plays  will  be  found  a  passage  which,  though 
dramatically  fitted  where  it  stands,  is  the  ultimate 
expression  of  the  love  which  held  these  two  lives 
352 


Michael  Field 

in   union.     It   occurs   in    The   Tragedy   of  Pardon, 
Act  III,  Scene  III : 

There  is  love 

Of  woman  unto  woman,  in  its  fibre 
Stronger  than  knits  a  mother  to  her  child. 
There  is  no  lack  in  it,  and  no  defect ; 
It  looks  nor  up  nor  down, 
But  loves  from  plenitude  to  plenitude, 
With  level  eyes,  as  in  the  Trinity 
God  looks  across  and  worships. 

Now  that  has  great  significance,  not  only  in  its 
personal  reference  and  human  charm,  but  in  the 
light  it  throws  upon  the  whole  achievement  of 
these  poets.  For  when  we  approach  a  little  closer 
to  the  very  considerable  bulk  of  their  work,  we  see 
that  love  is  its  ruling  passion.  Putting  aside  for 
the  moment  the  theme  of  religious  devotion  (where 
the  very  titles  of  the  books — such  as  Mystic  Trees 
and  Poems  of  Adoration — are  illuminating)  one 
finds  everywhere  breadth  and  depth  and  height  of 
love  which  are  almost  infinite.  And  if,  as  I  some- 
times think,  one  might  measure  the  stature  of  a 
poet  by  a  capacity  for  loving,  then  these  two  are 
great  indeed.  Of  course  I  do  not  mean  only  sexual 
passion,  although  that  has  its  place.  But  it  is  kept 
in  its  place.  Attila,  my  Attila!  and  the  two 
dramas  founded  on  the  Tristram  romance  are 

z  353 


Contemporary  'Poets 

examples  of  the  delicious  frenzy  as  it  is  treated, 
vividly  and  with  great  beauty,  by  Michael  Field ; 
just  as  Ras  Byzance  treats  the  foul,  inescapable, 
jealous  shadow  of  that  insanity.  But  love  which 
is  no  less  powerful  because  it  is  also  sane,  clear-eyed 
and  gentle,  has  a  much  larger  share  in  this  poetry. 

There  is,  for  example,  the  motherhood  of  Julia 
Domna,  with  the  astonishing  gesture  on  which  the 
play  closes — a  miracle  of  maternal  love  which,  for 
all  our  wonder,  we  feel  to  be  deeply  true  and 
psychologically  right.  The  Empress  has  seen  one 
son  murder  the  other — him  who  was  her  best- 
beloved — in  jealous  rage.  She  has  turned  in  wrath 
upon  the  murderer,  and  has  forbidden  him  her 
touch  and  her  very  presence.  But  presently  he 
returns,  worn  out  from  an  orgy  of  slaughter, 
and  falls  at  her  feet,  drunk  with  weariness.  She 
turns  slowly  from  her  dead,  and  says : 

You  have  need  of  sleep. 

My  son,  my  living  son,  you  are  weary  now.  .  .  . 
And  the  lids  close  so  soft !     Ye  blessed  gods, 
To  see  him  fall  asleep,  my  living  son. 

There  is  the  comradeship  of  Deirdre  ;  the  wist- 
ful yearning  of  The  Accuser,  incredulous  and  in- 
appeasable — There  is  such  loving  in  me  ! 

You  love  me  ...  stay ! 

And  Mariamne  loved  me  ?  ...  But  these  words 

354 


Michael  Field 

Are  as  great  victories  in  lands  so  far 
The  distance  makes  a  glory  in  itself. 

There  is  the  variable,  gracious  loving  of  The 
Tragic  Mary ;  the  adoration  of  those  amazing 
lovers,  Marcia  and  Eclectus,  for  the  Emperor 
Commodus  in  The  Race  of  Leaves ;  the  love 
of  country  in  A  Question  of  Memory  ;  and  there 
are  many  women  up  and  down  the  plays  who, 
like  Fair  Rosamund  and  Brangaena  and  Anna 
Ruina,  might  say  with  Mercia  in  The  World  at 
Auction  : 

And  yet  the  gods  for  many  thousand  years 
Have  loved  by  blessing  :  it  is  so  I  love. 

One  might  continue  to  give  examples ;  but  the 
thing  is  so  much  of  the  essence  of  this  poetry  that 
it  seems  ridiculous  to  try  to  illustrate — as  though 
one  should  bottle  samples  of  the  air  to  prove  that 
one  were  living.  But  that  is  the  point.  The 
passion  which  informs  this  poetry  is  its  nature,  the 
breath  of  life  in  it,  the  power  which  lights  its 
imagination  and  stirs  its  multiform  sympathy  and 
sharpens  its  inner  sight  till  it  darts  like  lightning 
to  the  secret  of  psychological  truth.  So  that  while 
it  is  possible  to  select  at  ease  one  quotation  out  of 
many  where  love  is  the  explicit  theme,  it  is  only 
by  breathing  the  atmosphere  of  the  whole  work 

355 


Contemporary  *Poets 

that  one  can  come  at  the  pervasive,  embracing  ether 
which  is  the  soul  of  it. 

Honor ia,  in  Attila,  my  Attila!  is  the  fullest 
embodiment  of  sensuous  passion  in  this  work.  So 
one  may  take  from  her  lips  one  explicit  example  : 

.  .  .  Love  makes  life  so  whole, 
Fills  up  all  hollow  spaces,  enters  in 
All  gaps  of  solitude  :  it  is  the  vigil, 
The  fasting,  and  the  ecstasy  in  one. 

And  another,  of  a  different  aspect,  from  Emma,  in 
Canute  the  Great : 

.  .  .  Oh,  this  love 

Is  a  diviner  power  than  holiness ; 

It  puts  all  evil  past  imagining. 

But  when  we  seek  for  some  phrase  which  shall  make 
visible  the  deep  source  from  which  this  poetry 
draws  its  life,  we  have  a  more  difficult  task.  Yet 
I  think  there  is  at  least  one  passage  which  reveals 
it.  It  is  to  be  found  in  Ras  Byzance,  at  the  end 
of  Act  II.  Menelik  the  Emperor  is  thinking  of  the 
crime  into  which  Ras  Byzance  has  stumbled,  of 
innocent  lives  crushed  and  nobility  and  greatness 
brought  low : 

We  are  here  together 

As  men  among  the  boulders  in  sheer  darkness : 
And  we  may  fall  and  hurt  each  other,  fall 
And  hurt  ourselves. 

356 


Michael  Field 

There,  as  it  were  in  a  tear,  is  reflected  the 
tenderness,  the  large  charity,  the  comprehend- 
ing pitifulness  which  is  the  soul  of  Michael 
Field. 

But,  if  you  please,  this  poetry  is  by  no  means 
sentimental.  Neither,  by  the  same  token,  is  it  or 
ever  was  it  decadent  ;  though  this  last  charge  a 
writer  has  dared  to  suggest  against  the  earlier  work, 
in  zealous  joy  that  these  two  ladies  were  converted, 
toward  the  end  of  their  career,  to  the  Church  of 
Rome.  Of  that  conversion,  what  has  one  the  right 
to  say  ?  Nothing — except  that  if  it  brought  them 
the  grace  of  beauty  and  the  solace  of  comfort  in 
the  last  bad  years,  the  world  owes  it  a  debt  of 
gratitude.  But  .  .  .  comfort !  When  for  the 
s#ke  of  their  religion  they  suffered  unnecessary 
torture  :  when  Michael,  to  the  day  she  died,  rose 
each  morning  at  seven  o'clock  to  be  carried  to 
Mass ! 

Is  the  protest  unfair  ?  Perhaps.  The  martyr 
brings  to  his  religion  so  much  more  than  he  takes 
from  it.  And  these  two  poets  brought  their  heroic 
temper,  nurtured  on  love  and  disciplined  by  many 
years  of  labour  at  their  art.  Not  the  Church, 
but  their  own  splendid  humanity,  inspired  and 
supported  those  acts  of  noble  folly ;  and  we  small 
critical  people,  zealous  for  a  theology  (or  no 

357 


Contemporary  *Poets 

theology)  can  but  peer  up  at  the  colossus  and  wonder 
at  life. 

So  the  influence  of  religion  may  be  put  aside, 
save  to  observe  that  it  probably  restrained  the 
poets  from  publishing  work  which  now  seems  their 
finest.  Art  has  a  quarrel  there  too  fierce  to  be 
taken  up  at  this  moment.  But  one  has  a  right 
to  be  indignant  at  the  suggestion  of  decadence. 
Have  people  no  eyes  ?  Can  they  not  see  truth 
when  it  is  clear  as  the  sun  at  noon  ?  The  austere 
heroism  in  which  the  lives  of  these  two  poets 
closed  was  of  their  fibre  from  the  beginning :  all 
their  work  is  touched  with  it,  making  of  gentleness 
a  sword  and  rooting  tenderness  in  adamant. 

But  what,  then,  can  be  the  meaning  of  this  word 
decadent,  if  indeed  it  is  not  wholly  irresponsible  ? 
Is  it  used  simply  as  a  label  for  the  epoch  when  they 
began  to  write  ?  when  to  be  drunk  and  disorderly 
is  said  to  have  been  a  poet's  favourite  sport  ?  But 
these  two  ladies  lived  blameless  lives.  Or  is  the 
grumble  directed  at  the  fact  that  much  of  the 
material  of  the  plays  is  drawn  from  decadent  periods 
of  history,  and  the  lives  of  great  sinners — Herod 
and  Borgia  and  Attila,  Mary  and  Conchobar  and 
Commodus  ?  But  to  be  great  in  sin  is  to  be  greatly 
human ;  and  inevitable  tragedy.  And  Michael 
Field  is  a  tragic  poet.  She  has  herself  quoted  from 

358 


Michael  Field 

the  Antigone — Nothing  that  is  vast  enters  into  the 
life  of  man  without  a  curse ;  and  the  vast  forces,  with 
their  attendant  curse,  had  an  invincible  attraction 
for  her.  One  sees  why.  Deep  called  to  deep,  and 
a  great  capacity  for  life  stretched  out  eager  hands 
to  pluck  life  wherever  it  was  most  vivid  and  intense. 
Inherent  in  those  vast  forces  are  the  struggle  and 
defeat  which  make  tragedy  ;  and  she  was  drawn  as 
by  a  magnet  to  that  conflict. 

Hence  every  one  of  the  twenty-five  dramas  is 
a  tragedy ;  but  come  a  very  little  closer  and  it 
will  be  seen  that  ruined  lives  have  been  breathed 
upon  by  triumph,  and  through  perverse  lives  is 
revealed  fundamental  Tightness  :  that  sweetness 
has  strength,  and  sympathy  inexorable  justice,  and 
pardon  cleansing  tears. 

One  pauses  a  moment  on  that,  because  below 
it  lies  the  primary  significance  of  the  work  we 
are  considering.  It  is  a  vast  charity,  sending  its 
roots  down  to  the  heart  of  life  and  planted  ineradic- 
ably  there  in  essential  truth.  There  are  those  who 
doubt  its  stability  ;  and  it  is  conceivable  that  the 
luxuriant,  plastic  graciousness  of  this  tree  of  life 
may  hide  from  a  superficial  glance  the  iron  grip 
it  keeps  upon  the  rock  below.  Which  is  to  say  that 
genius  of  a  certain  grandeur  is  exposed  to  mis- 
understanding by  its  own  largesse.  Hence  it  has 

359 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

been  possible  for  even  a  sympathetic  reviewer  to 
speak  of  this  work  as  "  the  Ethic  of  Anarchy," 
probably  because  he  was  not  regarding  it  in  the 
.whole.  It  may  be  admitted  at  once  that,  taken 
piecemeal,  there  is  audacity  enough  to  frighten 
the  timid.  Michael  Field  had  an  immense  love  of 
liberty,  and  hatred  of  every  kind  of  bondage.  She 
had  an  understanding  of  youth  and  its  wilfulness. 
She  had  no  reverence  for  mere  custom  and  con- 
sistency, but  adored  the  changefulness  which  is  the 
very  process  of  life. 

Let  us  look  at  some  of  these  daring  passages. 
The  most  provocative  are  those  which  condemn 
family  ties  ;  but  here  it  is  important  to  remember 
that  it  is  the  tie  which  has  lost  the  sanction  of 
love  that  she  censures.  Affection  gone,  the  bond, 
become  cruel,  automatic  and  mechanical,  is  thereby 
cancelled.  So  Honoria,  her  young  exuberance 
thwarted  and  her  person  held  a  prisoner,  exclaims : 

You  have  no  relatives  ? 

How  fortunate ! 

I  have  hated 
My  family  for  more  than  fourteen  years. 

And  Pulcheria  replies : 

Oh,  that  is  nothing,  all  the  saints  do  that. 
360 


Michael  Field 

So  Rothsay,  in  Act  II  of  The  Father's  Tragedy,  rebels 
against  the  cold  austerity  in  which  his  father  insists 
on  wrapping  his  life  : 

Old  men 

Will  answer  for  the  sins  that  they  have  done 
Across  the  years  to  those  in  backward  Time's 
Most  lovely  season. 

Lording  it 

Over  the  wretched  body  and  crushed  soul  ? 
Then  is  paternity  a  monstrous  crime 
Blind  justice  cannot  see. 

It  may  be  said  that  that  is  dramatic  logic  :  that 
it  belongs  inalienably  to  its  setting  of  character  and 
circumstance.  True  ;  but  the  frequent  recurrence 
of  the  idea,  and  its  emphasis,  give  warrant  to  a 
statement  that  the  poet  had  deep  sympathy  with 
the  youthful  rebel.  It  is,  of  course,  but  additional 
evidence  to  a  prevailing  love  of  freedom,  which 
takes  many  forms  and  is  apparent  everywhere.  It 
may  appear  as  political  liberty,  in  the  theme  of  a 
play  or  the  ruling  motive  of  a  character  :  as  physical 
liberty  in  the  agony  of  imprisonment  or  the  rapture 
of  escape :  as  delight  in  untrammelled  initiative, 
or  sheer  joy  in  unfettered  movement.  All  forms 
of  external  liberty  are  thus  seen  to  be  precious  in 
the  eyes  of  this  poet  :  while  for  spiritual  freedom 

361 


Contemporary    'Poets 

she  has  a  passion  only  second  to  the  love  which  we 
have  found  to  be  the  soul  of  her  genius.  Is  it 
second,  indeed  ?  One  sees  it  rather  as  coequal, 
the  proud  intellectual  partner  of  that  fellowship. 
But  just  because  it  is  thus  of  the  mental  texture  of 
the  work,  one  needs  to  know  all  the  work  to  feel  its 
full  weight.  Quotation  will  hardly  serve  it,  and 
in  attempting  a  selection  one  can  only  hope  that 
it  will  not  actually  dis-serve.  Thus  Honoria,  in 
youthful  optimism  : 

.  .  .   All  life  is  simple  and  we  want 
No  masters  in  it,  if  we  will  but  live. 

Thus  Canute,  shaking  off  the  bondage  of  the  old 
pagan  religion  : 

To  myself  this  new, 

Unsettled  energy  within  my  brain 

Is  worth  all  odds. 

And  thus  Carloman,  who  is  the  supreme  symbol  of 
freedom  for  this  poet,  as  he  is  the  supreme  creation 
of  her  art,  cries  when  he  is  accused  of  being  a  rebel : 

I  am,  I  am,  because  I  am  alive — 

And  not  a  slave  who  sleeps  through  Time. 


362 


I  am  free !     I  prove  it,  acting  freely. 
We  must  give  our  natures  to  the  air, 


Michael  Field 

To  light  and  liberty,  suppressing  nothing, 
Freeing  each  passion. 

We  must  escape 

From  anything  that  is  become  a  bond, 
No  matter  who  has  forged  the  chain. 

It  is  from  Carloman,  in  the  tragedy  of  In  the 
Name  of  Time,  that  one  gathers  the  poet's  philo- 
sophy, and  sees  it  to  be  a  philosophy  of  change 
serving  a  religion  of  life.  And  here,  too,  the  in- 
dependence and  breadth  of  her  thought  are  liable 
to  misunderstanding.  I  do  not,  of  course,  use  the 
word  philosophy  in  its  technical  sense,  though  it 
would  seem  that  in  this  department  of  humane 
learning,  as  well  as  others,  she  was  a  careful  student. 
But  it  had  become  a  reproach  to  her  because  its 
laws  operated  to  frustrate  the  vital  impulse  :  it 
ran  counter  to  her  religion  of  life.  In  'The  Race  of 
Leaves,  Fadilla,  the  daughter  of  Marcus  Aurelius 
and  Faustina,  is  made  to  say  : 

.  .  .  Philosophy, 

That  smiles  on  life,  till  life  is  made  ashamed, 
And  sunders  from  each  end  for  which  it  throbs. 

I  think,  therefore,  that  we  are  forbidden  to  con- 
sider In  the  Name  of  lime  as  a  philosophic  argu- 
ment, or  to  refer  it  to  any  system,  Bergsonian  or 


Contemporary   *Poets 

other.  It  is  much  more  of  the  nature  of  a  creed, 
though  too  big  and  glowing  to  fit  into  any  formula. 
Theologies  dwindle  beside  it ;  and  if  one  does  not 
assert  that  it  is  a  triumphant  attack  upon  the  Church 
of  Rome,  that  is  only  because  it  has  too  much  of 
greatness,  moral  and  artistic,  to  be  anything  so 
polemical.  One  can  see,  however,  why  publication 
was  delayed  till  after  the  poet's  death.  But, 
theological  reasons  apart,  the  human  instinct  which 
withheld  this  her  finest  work  is  comprehensible  and 
touching.  For  there  are  things  in  it  which  throw 
a  challenge,  not  to  priests  alone,  but  to  all  the 
multitude  which  puts  an  eternal  faith  in  an 
ephemeral  morality.  And,  courageous  as  this  poet 
was,  one  feels  that  her  deeply  religious  spirit  could 
not  have  borne  the  accusation  of  irreligion. 

Nevertheless  there  is  here  a  philosophy  of  life. 
It  is  indeed  the  chief  import  of  all  the  tragedies 
and  the  problems  they  involve,  notwithstanding 
that  dramatic  power  makes  their  artistic  value  very 
high  indeed.  But  it  is  more  just  to  the  poet's 
thought  and  method  to  approach  her  meaning 
through  her  art  :  that  is  to  say,  to  watch  the  actual 
movement  of  the  drama,  to  observe  the  logic  of  its 
events,  and  to  accept  the  fragmentary,  suggestive 
and  often  complex  wisdom  which  is  struck  out  of 
the  conflict,  as  it  is  struck  out  of  life,  in  fleeting 
364 


Michael  Field 

sparks.  And  the  fact  that  one  has  to  reach  her 
philosophy  in  this  way  is  of  course  a  tribute  to  her 
art. 

It  follows  that  much  of  the  significance  of  In  the 
Name  of  lime  is  only  apparent  in  reviewing  the 
action,  which  there  is  not  space  to  do  here.  We 
can  but  note  its  prime  movement — that  Carloman, 
desiring  to  "  possess  the  great  reality,"  puts  off  his 
royal  state  and  seeks  God  in  the  cloister.  But  he 
finds  that  in  renouncing  fellowship  with  his  kind  he 
has  renounced  God.  He  is  plunged  into  the  misery 
and  loneliness  of  bondage,  out  of  which  he  ultimately 
wins,  though  only  in  dying,  through  the  benediction 
of  human  love.  And  his  last  words,  answering  those 
first  words,  "  I  will  possess  the  great  reality,"  across 
the  vehement  action  of  the  drama  are  : 

I  for  myself 
Deep  drink  to  life  here  in  my  prison  cell. 

Fellowship,  pleasure. 

These  are  the  treasure — 

So  I  believe,  so  in  the  name  of  Time.  .  .  . 

If,  therefore,  one  is  at  all  justified  in  attempting 
a  definition  for  Michael  Field's  philosophy — or 
religion — it  is  surely  a  worship  of  life,  a  belief  in 
the  joy  of  fellowship,  and  a  vision  of  change  as 

365 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

the  vital  principle  of  living.      Thus  Carloman,  in 
Act  I: 

There  is  no  vanity  in  life ;  life  utters 

Unsparing  truth  to  us, — there  is  no  line 

Or  record  in  our  body  of  her  printing 

That  stamps  a  falsehood.     Do  not  so  confound, 

Father,  life's  transience  and  sincerity. 

Again,  in  Act  III : 

.  .  .  Time 

Is  God's  own  movement,  all  that  He  can  do 
Between  the  day  a  man  is  born  and  dies. 

.  .  .  Think  what  the  vines  would  be 
If  they  were  glued  forever,  and  one  month 
Gave  them  a  law — the  richness  that  would  cease, 
The  flower,  the  shade,  the  ripening.     We  are  men, 
With  fourscore  years  for  season,  and  we  alter 
So  exquisitely  often  on  our  way 
To  harvest  and  the  end.  .  .  . 

And  in  Act  IV  : 

The  God  I  worship.     He  is  just  to-day — 
Not  dreaming  of  the  future, — in  itself, 
Breath  after  breath  divine  !     Oh,  He  becomes  ! 
He  cannot  be  of  yesterday,  for  youth 
Could  not  then  walk  beside  Him,  and  the  young 
Must  walk  with  God  :  and  He  is  most  alive 
Wherever  life  is  of  each  living  thing. 

So,    too,   with    the    fellowship   which    this  poet 
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Michael  Field 

adores.  It  is  not  a  thing  of  ties,  by  blood  or  other- 
wise :  it  will  have  no  dealings  with  anything  that 
hurts  or  hinders  life.  Carloman,  hearing  the  con- 
fession of  his  wife's  lover,  refuses  to  bind  her 
freedom  : 

You  wrong  her — 

Not  yours  nor  mine.     Earth's  wisdom  will  begin 
When  all  relationships  are  put  away 
With  their  dull  pack  of  duties,  and  we  look 
Curious,  benignant,  with  a  great  compassion 
Into  each  other's  lives. 

It  is,  in  brief,  simply  the  freedom  of  love.  And 
we  come  back  to  the  beginning,  and  close  the  circle, 
in  that  "  great  compassion."  Boniface,  the  gentle 
Christian  missionary,  has  come  to  visit  Carloman  in 
his  prison.  He  exclaims  as  he  enters — Beloved! 
and  Carloman  stops  him  : 

No  more  !     Dear  voice,  end  with  that  word  : 

.  .  .  Go  to  your  heathen  lands 
With  that  great  lay  of  love. 


367 


Thomas  Hardy 

I  HAVE  observed  a  special  gleam  in  the  eyes 
of  thoughtful  people  when  they  talk  about 
Thomas  Hardy.  There  is  a  certain  inflection 
of  the  voice,  too,  and  a  lingering  smile,  which  mean 
nothing  if  they  do  not  mean  affection.  So  that,  in 
thinking  of  the  veteran  poet  among  his  contem- 
poraries, a  word  of  his  own  darts  into  the  mind  and 
insists  upon  defining  him — Hardy  the  Well-beloved. 
Now  that  is  rather  curious  when  one  notes  the 
fact  that  generally  Mr  Hardy's  work  has  few  of  the 
more  attractive  poetic  graces.  The  qualities  in  a 
poet  which  capture  one  unawares  are  not  his : 
simple  winsomeness  his  poetry  very  seldom  has. 
Besides,  he  seems  in  a  sense  too  big  for  familiar 
affection,  too  austere  a  thinker,  ruled  too  often  by 
a  satiric  mood ;  and  too  close  an  observer  of  all  one's 
faults  and  follies. 

If  it  is  not,  therefore,  for  charm  of  manner  that 
this  poet  holds  his  place  in  the  heart  of  his  time,  it 
must  be  for  something  in  the  material  of  his  thought. 
And  the  instant  we  turn  our  eyes  in  that  direction 
we  see  at  a  glance  that  it  is  the  modernity  of 
Hardy  which  enshrines  him.  He  is  pre-eminently  a 
modern  poet,  and  this  despite  the  fact  that  he  is 
twice  as  old  as  the  most  modern  of  his  contem- 
368 


Thomas   Hardy 

poraries.  But  Hardy  has  escaped  the  doom  of  age 
to  harden  and  grow  dull.  His  thought  remains 
young,  alert,  flexible,  sensitive ;  and  that  angry 
indictment  of  the  old  men  made  by  so  many 
generous  young  ones  from  the  days  of  Sophocles' 
Creon  onward  has  no  force  here.  It  is,  indeed, 
splendidly  refuted.  For  instead  of  a  mind  wearily 
falling  back  upon  reaction  as  some  tired  body  upon 
a  down  bed,  or  at  best  rigidly  maintaining  a  philo- 
sophy which  has  ceased  to  be  true,  here  is  a  thinker 
who,  from  the  accumulated  data  of  many  patient 
years,  begins  to  utter  his  explicit  message  tenta- 
tively— a  word  here  and  a  word  there  ;  and  formu- 
lates it  fully  (in  the  Dynasts)  only  after  long  and 
concentrated  effort.  But  still  finality  has  not  been 
reached.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  finality  here  ; 
and  the  latest  poems  of  Hardy  show  his  thought  to 
be  still  a  living  and  growing  thing,  marching  abreast 
of  its  time  with  the  youngest  and  boldest  there. 

It  is  for  this  reason  especially  that  we  Irave  cause 
for  thankfulness  that  Hardy  did  not  stay  his  hand 
after  he  had  written  his  novels.  We  should  not 
then  have  known  him.  We  might  have  made  im- 
perfect guesses.  It  would  have  been  possible,  per- 
haps, for  a  rare  mind  of  scope  almost  equal  to  his 
own  to  deduce  from  the  novels  the  philosophy  of 
life  which  is  implicit  there.  But  for  most  of  us 

2  A  369 


Contemporary    'Poets 

he  would  have  remained  only  half  known — the 
teller  of  a  good  story,  the  shaper  of  a  moving  tragedy 
out  of  the  chaos  of  existence,  a  lively  and  ironical 
writer,  but  suspected  of  pessimism,  and,  despite 
a  real  tenderness,  almost  harsh  in  manner. 

But  with  the  Dynasts  and  the  two  later  volumes 
of  lyrics  before  us,  our  view  is  not  only  very  much 
greater  but  vastly  different.  We  see  now  some- 
thing so  grand  that  it  is  almost  too  big  to  grasp  ; 
and  so  sensitive  that  it  must  of  its  very  nature  be 
profoundly  tragical.  And  we  know  that  in  it  is 
crystallized  all  the  elements  which  the  artistic 
consciousness  of  a  lifetime  has  gathered,  tested,  and 
passed  through  the  crucible  over  and  over  again. 

Hardy's  method,  indeed,  is  avowedly  scientific 
and  is  but  another  aspect  of  his  modernism.  In 
the  preface  to  Poems  of  the  Past  and  the  Present, 
he  alludes  to  the  fragmentary  and  unassimilated 
condition  of  much  of  his  material,  and  vindicates 
his  use  of  it.  "  Unadjusted  impressions,"  he  says, 
"  have  their  value,  and  the  road  to  a  true  philosophy 
of  life  seems  to  lie  in  humbly  recording  diverse 
readings  of  its  phenomena  as  they  are  forced  upon 
us  by  chance  and  change." 

Hence  we  see  him  at  work,  patiently  experiment- 
ing, observing  and  recording  in  the  true  manner  of 
the  scientist.  It  is  a  method  which  has  its  weakness 

370 


Thomas  Hardy 

for  the  purposes  of  the  poet  ;  but  it  has  ultimately 
justified  itself  so  well  to  Hardy  that  we  are  free  to 
note  where  it  occasionally  fails,  and  to  see  where  the 
man  of  science  does  violence  to  the  poet.  Thus 
one  sometimes  finds  him  heaping  up  records  appar- 
ently for  their  own  sake,  without  reflection  or 
feeling  ;  so  that  many  of  the  shorter  lyrics  are  but 
data  in  verse.  Curious  facts,  grotesque  people  and 
extraordinary  incidents  are  dressed  out  in  jolly 
rhyme  and  metre.  They  trip  and  tinkle  merrily, 
and  do  their  utmost  to  be  poetry,  but  they 
succeed  only  in  appearance.  They  are  ill  at  ease 
in  their  fine  dress.  They  seem  conscious  of  being 
"  unadjusted  impressions,"  and  to  be  ruefully 
wishing  that  the  poet  had  left  them  in  their  native 
garb  of  prose,  tucked  away  in  a  commonplace  book. 
Occasionally  they  are  so  absurd  that  we  suspect 
him  of  poking  fun  at  us  ;  sometimes  so  bizarre  that 
they  have  but  the  frailest  link  with  reality.  A  thing 
which  might  just  conceivably  happen,  but  which 
could  surely  never  happen  twice,  may  throw  its 
unique  beam  on  the  path  to  a  philosophy  of  life, 
but  it  is  too  alien  to  win  its  way  into  that  happy 
region  of  belief  and  acceptance  where  only  poetry 
can  live.  So  a  piece  like  "  Royal  Sponsors,"  where 
the  corpse  of  a  baby  is  christened,  merely  revolts 
us ;  one  like  "  The  Caged  Goldfinch  "  makes  us 

37* 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

perversely  laugh  ;  and  "  The  Statue  of  Liberty," 
with  its  strong  flavour  of  a  sailor's  yarn  and  its 
"  long  arm  of  coincidence,"  compels  an  irreverent 
ejaculation  about  the  Marines. 

The  truth  is,  of  course,  that  in  such  pieces  the 
poet  has  not  sufficiently  played  his  part.  He  has 
ceded  the  first  place  to  the  recorder  of  data,  and 
has  contented  himself  with  arranging  the  record 
in  a  pretty  pattern.  He  has  thought  about  the 
incident  very  much,  but  he  has  felt  it  hardly  at  all. 
Hence  materials  which  are  unpromising  in  them- 
selves, and  which  could  only  become  poetry  by 
complete  fusion  in  the  poetic  consciousness,  remain 
as  mere  fragments,  very  carefully  chipped  and 
polished,  it  is  true,  but  hard  and  rather  clumsy 
fragments  nevertheless. 

That,  however,  is  only  one  aspect  of  Hardy's 
scientific  method,  and  it  is  not  the  most  important. 
To  watch  the  application  of  the  method  to  the 
form  of  the  work  is  much  more  interesting,  as  he 
constantly  tries  new  shapes  and  fresh  combinations 
and  intricate  rhyme  tunes ;  as  he  presses  every- 
thing into  the  service  of  his  diction,  even  ugly, 
forcible  and  commonplace  words  ;  and  continually 
experiments  with  rhythm  until  he  succeeds  in  an 
exquisitely  happy  lilt  like  that  of  "  Timing  Her," 
or  a  tender  elegiac  one  such  as  that  of  "  Afterwards." 
372 


Thomas    Hardy 

And  to  watch  it  amassing  material  in  the  Dynasts, 
checking,  co-ordinating,  and  constructing,  is  to  see  a 
function  no  less  wonderful  than  the  selective  and 
recreative  power  which  it  nobly  serves.  Its  great 
triumph  lies  there,  indeed — in  providing  an  instru- 
ment so  well  attuned  to  the  mind  of  the  poet :  in 
forging  a  sword  for  his  spirit  so  excellently  tempered. 
Thus  one  comes  back  to  the  modernism  of  Hardy, 
and  sees  that  not  only  his  philosophy  but  his  style 
and  his  method  are  shaped  by  it,  and  in  their  turn 
express  it.  His  philosophy  is  a  purely  intellectual 
conception  of  the  universe.  It  is  no  vindication 
of  the  ways  of  God  to  man  ;  but,  starting  from 
frank  nescience,  it  is  an  unwearied  search  for  an 
explanation,  a  steady  scrutiny  of  facts,  a  projection 
of  thought  far  through  space  and  time,  a  survey  of 
the  fields  of  cosmic  and  human  history  ;  and  a  bold 
pursuit  of  Truth,  though  it  threaten  to  destroy, 
until  a  stand  is  made  at  last  before  certain  inevit- 
able conclusions.  And  there  the  whole  process  of 
the  universe  is  seen  as  a  vast  unconscious  force,  a 
single  energy,  working  blindly  and  automatically 
toward  some  possible  goal  of  ultimate  consciousness. 
So,  in  the  Forescene  of  the  Dynasts  : 

What  of  the  Immanent  Will  and  Its  designs  ? 
It  works  unconsciously,  as  heretofore, 

373 


Contemporary   'Poets 

Eternal  artistries  in  Circumstance, 

.  .  .  like  a  knitter  drowsed, 

Whose  fingers  play  in  skilled  unmindfulness, 

The  Will  has  woven  with  an  absent  heed 

Since  life  first  was ;  and  ever  will  so  weave. 

There  is  something  awful  in  the  grandeur  of  this 
conception  as  it  is  worked  out  from  the  clash  of 
tremendous  forces  in  the  Dynasts.  Nevertheless  it 
is  not  made  into  a  dogma,  and  it  is  not  insisted  on. 
No  new  creed  is  formulated,  and  one  finds  no  claim 
to  completeness  or  finality.  On  the  contrary,  the 
great  epic-drama  closes  on  a  low,  tremulous,  un- 
certain note — all  its  magnificence  of  thought  and 
imagination  stooped  to  catch  a  pale  gleam  which 
seems  to  the  poet  to  come  from  the  future  : 

Last  as  first  the  question  rings 
Of  the  Will's  long  travailings; 

But — a  stirring  thrills  the  air 
Like  to  sounds  of  joyance  there 
That  the  rages 
Of  the  ages 
Shall  be  cancelled,    and  deliverance  offered  from  the 

darts  that  were, 

Consciousness    the    Will   informing,  till  It  fashion  ali 
things  fair  ! 

This  word  of  hope  on  which  the  epic  closes  is 
nothing  impulsive  or  fleeting.     Neither  is  it  a  mere 

374 


Thomas   Hardy 

palliative.  It  is  amplified  in  a  poem,  which  by  all  - 
the  signs  was  written  later,  called  "  The  Sleep- 
Worker,"  and  which  is  addressed  to  Mother  Nature 
as  another  figure  for  the  "  Immanent  Will "  of  the 
Dynasts.  The  poet  resumes  the  idea  (which  appears 
in  other  pieces  also,  notably  "  A  Fragment  ")  that 
the  power  which  informs  the  Universe  will  one  day 
achieve  feeling  and  consciousness.  It  will  under- 
stand what  it  has  done,  and,  looking  on  the  misery 
of  the  human  race,  it  will  learn  to  feel  sorrow  for 
them  and  horror  at  itself.  But  what  will  happen 
when  that  day  comes  ? 

Wilt  them  destroy,  in  one  wild  shock  of  shame, 
Thy  whole  high-heaving  firmamental  frame, 
Or  patiently  adjust,  amend,  and  heal  ? 

It  is  an  austere  philosophy,  but  it  will  carry 
solace  to  all  those  who,  in  however  small  degree, 
have  seen  the  problem  as  the  poet  faced  it — that  is 
to  say,  the  apparent  existence  of  an  evil  power  in 
the  scheme  of  things.  To  escape  from  the  night- 
mare of  that  possibility  is  an  escape  indeed  ;  and 
in  winning  free  from  it  Hardy  has  refuted  the  charge 
of  pessimism  which  is  often  brought  against  him. 
He  has  discovered  once  for  all  that  there  is  no 
malicious  purpose  in  the  heart  of  things,  and  that 
the  blows  which  fall  on  us  are  not  so  aimed.  As  he 

375 


Contemporary   'Poets 

symbolizes  it  in  the  poem  called  "  The  Subalterns," 
the  wind  which  lays  waste  his  garden  is  but  an 
instrument,  and  entirely  passive :  the  elements  are 
not  in  league  against  him. 

We  smiled  upon  each  other  then, 

And  life  to  me  wore  less 
That  fell  contour  it  wore  ere  when 

They  owned  their  passiveness. 

The  relief  which  that  denial  of  an  evil  power  will 
bring  is  of  course  proportioned  to  the  acuteness 
with  which  such  a  power  has  been  apprehended. 
One  lightly  supposes — though  it  may  be,  after  all, 
a  much  too  facile  hope — that  not  many  of  the 
people  one  meets  in  the  bus  would  need  the  solace 
of  it.  But  there  is  a  development  of  Hardy's 
philosophy  which  has  positive  and  universal  value. 
It  advances  from  the  point  which  the  Dynasts  had 
attained — from  that  stand  before  inexorable  truth 
whence  the  poet  had  declared  that  there  is  no 
power  in  the  universe  to  give  us  either  good  or  evil, 
there  is  only  the  Incognizant.  "  Here,  then,  is  the 
truth,"  he  seems  to  say.  "  We  accept  it.  But 
what  then  ?  Is  there  no  succour  anywhere  for 
humanity  ?  Surely  yes.  There  is  humanity  itself, 
its  love  and  its  brotherliness."  So,  in  the  poem 
called  "  A  Plaint  to  Man,"  Hardy  figures  the  idea 
of  God  complaining  to  mankind  that  He  has  been 


Thomas   Hardy 

created  merely  to  pray  to  ;  but  that  His  day  is  done, 
and  now  He  is  dwindling  in  a  clearer  light  : 

The  truth  should  be  told,  and  the  fact  be  faced 
That  had  best  been  faced  in  earlier  years, 

The  fact  of  life  with  dependence  placed 
On  the  human  heart's  resource  alone, 
In  brotherhood  bonded  close  and  graced 

With  loving-kindness  fully  blown, 
And  visioned  help  unsought,  unknown. 

So  much  it  was  necessary,  very  inadequately,  to 
say  about  Hardy's  philosophy,  because,  after  all,  it 
is  in  the  massiveness  and  the  courage  of  his  thought 
that  his  greatness  consists.  But  there  is  a  whole 
region  of  his  work  which  is  very  much  more  delight- 
ful to  the  lover  of  poetry  for  poetry's  sake. 

There  are  lyrics  written  since  The  Dynasts  which 
are  more  spontaneous  and  more  exuberant  than  any 
of  the  earlier  poems.  They  have  put  off  the  weight 
of  the  world,  and  are  lighter  and  freer  than  ever 
before.  It  is  an  amazing  thing  when  one  thinks 
about  it,  that  lyrics  so  sweet  and  tender  should 
come  to  us  at  this  stage  of  the  poet's  career,  when 
by  all  the  precedents  thought  should  predominate 
over  feeling  and  march  to  a  graver  measure.  But 
it  is  only  another  sign  of  that  youthfulness  of  spirit 

377 


Contemporary    T^oets 

which  endears  him.     Joy  almost  dances  in  "  Timing 
Her,"  from  Moments  of  Vision : 

Lalage's  coming : 
Where  is  she  now,  O  ? 
Turning  to  bow,  O, 
And  smile,  is  she, 
Just  at  parting, 
Farting,  parting, 
As  she  is  starting 
To  come  to  me  ? 

And  in  "  Great  Things  "  this  poet  of  an  austere 
and  tragic  philosophy,  whose  view  of  life  is,  in 
his  own  words,  as  a  "  breast-bared  spectacle," 
triumphantly  chants  the  jollity  of  living  and  the 
sweetness  of  love.  He  praises  the  things  that  have 
given  him  joy — love  and  the  dance  and  sweet  cider 
— and  lightly  banishes  reflection  when  it  tries  to 
intrude  : 

Will  these  be  always  great  things, 

Great  things  to  me  ?  .  .  . 
Let  it  befall  that  One  will  call, 

"  Soul,  I  have  need  of  thee." 
What  then  ?     Joy-jaunts,  impassioned  flings, 

Love,  and  its  ecstasy, 
Will  always  have  been  great  things, 

Great  things  to  me. 

So,  too,  in  many  other  of  these  lyrics  emotion 
conquers,  winning  also  a  happier  grace  of  form.  It 

378 


Thomas   Hardy 

is  not  always  joy,  of  course.  Sorrow  and  tender 
regret  breathe  through  a  whole  series  of  them,  as 
in  "  The  Going  "  and  "  Lament  "  : 

She  is  shut,  she  is  shut 
From  friendship's  spell, 
In  the  jailing  shell 
Of  her  tiny  cell. 

And  in  "  The  Blinded  Bird  "  there  is  indignation 
and  infinite  pity  : 

So  zestfully  canst  thou  sing  ?  .  .  . 

Who  hath  charity  ?     This  bird. 
Who  suffereth  long  and  is  kind, 
Is  not  provoked,  though  blind 
And  alive  ensepulchred  ? 
Who  hopeth,  endureth  all  things  ? 
Who  thinketh  no  evil,  but  sings  ? 
Who  is  divine  ?     This  bird. 

The  detachment  of  the  earlier  work  has  gone. 
The  ironical  themes,  the  satirical  attitude,  the  old 
insistence  on  the  unlovely  side  of  character,  are  all 
but  banished  here.  The  prevailing  mood  is  one  of 
tenderness :  the  attitude  one  of  complete  concen- 
tration. Thought  is  not  fierce  any  longer  ;  tragedy 
is  less  bitter  ;  sadness  is  gentler  ;  and  all  the  poetic 
energies  are  mellowed.  So,  in  the  poem  "  To 
an  Unborn  Pauper  Child,"  the  elements  of  his 

379 


Contemporary   *Poets  % 

philosophy  are  distilled  to  an  exquisite  pitifulness ; 
and  in  the  poem  called  "  Afterwards,"  where  the 
poet  is  looking  forward  to  the  time  when  he  will 
take  his  final  departure,  the  elegiac  sweetness  is 
suffused  by  a  sunset  glow  which  warms  and  softens 
and  brings  nearer  to  us  all  his  greatness  : 

When  the  Present  has  latched  its  postern  behind  my 

tremulous  stay, 

And  the  May  month  flaps  its  glad  green  leaves  like  wings, 
Delicate  filmed  as  new-spun  silk,  will  the  people  say, 
"  He  was  a  man  who  used  to  notice  such  things"  ? 

If  I  pass  during  some  nocturnal  blackness,  mothy  and  warm, 

When  the  hedgehog  travels  furtively  over  the  lawn, 

Will   they  say,   "  He  strove  that   such  innocent  creatures 

should  come  to  no  harm, 
But  he  could  do  little  for  them  ;  and  now  he  is  gone"  ? 


380 


/.  C.  Squire 


THERE  was  once  a  Jester  at  the  Court  of 
Modern  Poetry,  and  his  name  was  J.  C. 
Squire.  He  was  a  great  joy  to  everybody 
who,  not  being  exactly  a  member  of  the  Court, 
could  listen  to  the  jingle  of  his  bells  from  a  distance. 
One  could  chuckle  safely  there  over  his  jibes  at 
those  others.  But  to  his  friends  he  must  have 
been  an  enfant  terrible,  and  to  certain  enemies  an 
abomination. 

He  was,  as  the  Fool  needs  must  be,  a  seer  ;  and 
because  the  nature  of  his  seeing  was  critical,  he  was 
the  Censor  of  the  Court  as  well  as  its  fun-maker. 
His  jesting  was  a  correction,  his  satire  a  purge,  and 
his  laughter  had  the  tonic  properties  of  the  Comic 
Spirit.  He  loved  to  chaff  the  other  poets,  and 
exercise  his  wit  on  their  idiosyncrasies  and  artistic 
faults.  So  he  made  parodies  of  them,  both  of  the 
living  and  (for  he  had  no  proper  reverence)  of  the 
dead.  Because  he  had  a  gift  of  mimicry  and  a  very 
sharp  eye  for  the  ridiculous,  the  parodies  were  good 
fun ;  and  because  he  nearly  always  practised  a 
justesse  of  exaggeration,  and  set  nothing  down  in 
malice,  they  were,  to  all  but  their  victims  perhaps, 
most  amusing  exercises  in  criticism. 

So,    though   the   Jester   has   done    with   jesting, 


Contemporary    T^oets 

people  do  not  intend  to  forget  that  lie  once  wore 
motley.  He  delighted  in  all  manner  of  fooling, 
from  the  blasphemous  vision  of  the  poet  Gray  com- 
posing his  "  Elegy  "  among  the  "  lewd  forefathers  " 
m  the  Spoon  River  Cemetery,  to  Sir  Rabindranath 
Tagore  delicately  distilling  inanity  out  of  "  Little 
Drops  of  Water  "  ;  or  from  the  affectionate  banter 
of  Mr  W.  H.  Davies  to  the  Punch-and-Judy  knock- 
about of  the  parodies  of  Mr  Masefield.  In  the  last 
the  Jester  for  once  ran  past  himself,  to  use  the 
expressive  vernacular.  He  broke  his  almost  in- 
variable rule  of  heightening  a  feature  in  precisely 
the  right  degree  to  let  loose  its  potential  humour 
— and  in  that  degree  only.  He  passes  this  golden 
mean  several  times  in  the  narrative  poem  about  Flo, 
the  barmaid  of  Pimlico,  supposed  to  have  been 
written  by  Mr  Masefield — not  to  speak  of  the  version 
of  "  Casabianca "  also  attributed  to  that  poet  ; 
and  both  are  rather  ugly  fooling  in  consequence. 
I  quote  a  mild  example.  Flo's  mother  speaks  : 

If't  wasn't  for  Flo's  fifteen  bob  a  week, 

Me  and  them  brats  would  not  know  where  to  turn, 

For  some  of  'em  ain't  old  enough  to  speak, 
And  none  of  'em  ain't  old  enough  to  earn, 
And  as  for  'er  bright  merry  japes,  why,  durn 

My  bleedin'  eyes,  if  we'd  no  Flo  to  quirk  us, 

I'm  sure  we'd  soon  be  droopin'  in  the  workus. 

382 


J.  C.  Squire 


Of  course  both  the  Masefield  parodies  are  funny, 
and  so  justify  their  existence.  But  even  if  they 
were  not,  they  would  be  saved  from  repulsiveness 
by  the  Jester's  insight.  His  art  is  something  more 
than  a  trick :  it  does  more  than  catch  the  manner 
of  whomsoever  he  is  burlesquing.  It  is  a  criticism, 
small  but  complete,  of  form  and  spirit,  of  manner, 
matter  and  mental  outlook.  And  if  he  lays  about 
him  too  roughly  in  these  particular  instances,  I 
suspect  it  is  because  there  is  something  antithetical 
to  him  in  the  whole  genius  of  the  poet  he  is 
bludgeoning.  Which  is  not  to  say  that  the  two  may 
not  be  very  good  friends,  for  indeed  one  would 
not  thump  an  enemy  in  just  that  way.  But  the 
exuberant  creative  faculty  of  Mr  Masefield  and 
the  means  by  which  it  hurries  to  utter  itself  are 
sufficiently  opposed  to  the  other  questioning  and 
fastidious  spirit.  One  would  have  thought  the 
extreme  simplicity  of  Mr  Davies  almost  as  great  a 
contrast,  and  therefore  equally  provocative.  It 
makes,  indeed,  an  excellent  target,  and  the  Jester 
"  gets  the  bull's-eye "  every  time ;  but  its 
very  singleness  makes  it  less  vulnerable,  partly 
because  fewer  points  of  attack  are  exposed, 
and  partly  because  there  is  a  charm  about  it 
which  disarms  the  attacker.  Here  is  a  stanza 
from  No.  I  ; 

383 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

I  saw  some  sheep  upon  some  grass, 

The  sheep  were  fat,  the  grass  was  green, 

The  sheep  were  white  as  clouds  that  pass, 
And  greener  grass  was  never  seen  ; 

I  thought,  "  Oh,  how  my  bliss  is  deep, 

With  such  green  grass  and  such  fat  sheep !  " 

And  I  cannot  resist  taking  the  whole  of  No.  2  : 

A  poor  old  man 

Who  has  no  bread, 
He  nothing  can 

To  get  a  bed. 

He  has  a  cough, 

Bad  boots  he  has  ; 
He  takes  them  off 

Upon  the  grass. 

He  does  not  eat 

In  cosy  inns 
But  keeps  his  meat 

In  salmon  tins. 

No  oven  hot, 

No  frying-pan, 
Thank  God  I'm  not 

That  poor  old  man. 

That  is  delicious  fooling,  and  more.  Laughter 
is  enriched  by  something  other  than  mockery,  for 
under  the  touch  of  caricature  and  the  heightened 
colour  we  recognize  a  portrait.  Through  the  oddity 

384 


J .  C.  Squire 

of  manner  shines  a  serene  and  genial  temper.  The 
whole  thing  is  in  character.  So,  too,  with  the 
vivacious  parody  of  Mr  Belloc  : 

At  Martinmas,  when  I  was  born, 

Hey  diddle,  Ho  diddle,  Do, 
There  came  a  cow  with  a  crumpled  horn, 

Hey  diddle,  Ho  diddle,  Do. 
She  stood  agape  and  said,  "  My  dear, 
You're  a  very  fine  child  for  this  time  of  year, 
And  I  think  you'll  have  a  taste  in  beer," 

Hey  diddle,  Ho  diddle,  Ho,  do,  do,  do, 

Hey  diddle,  Ho  diddle,  Do. 

And  again  with  that  of  Mr  Chesterton.  The 
nonsense  of  it  has  all  the  vigour  of  its  original — and 
some  other  recognizable  features  as  well.  To  see 
Mr  Chesterton  leaping  over  Thames  bridges  one 
after  the  other  is  sport  indeed  ;  and  to  hear  him 
chanting  antitheses  about  green  rain  and  pink 
grass  has  a  jolly  and  familiar  ring. 

The  essence  of  the  Jester's  work  in  this  kind  is  its 
good  temper.  One  can  imagine  that  when  he  was 
working  in  another  vein  the  people  he  satirized 
might  have  been  rather  cross  with  him.  But  he 
seems  to  have  had  a  tender  spot  in  his  heart  for 
poets.  And  even  the  Very  New  Ones  who  are 
supposed  to  have  written  "  The  Lotus  Eaters " 
have  not  much  to  complain  about : 

2B  385 


Contemporary    T^oets 

Work! 

Did  I  used  to  work  ? 

I  seem  to  remember  it 

Out  there. 

Millions  of  fools  are  still  at 

n, 

Jumping  about 

All  over  the  place.   .  .  . 

And  what's  the  good  of  it  all  ?  .  .  . 

Buzz, 

Hustle, 

Pop, 

And  then  .  .  . 

Dump 

In  the  grave. 

Perhaps  they  are  let  off  more  lightly  than  they 
deserve,  in  view  of  their  tender  age.  But  it  was 
quite  another  story  about  Lambeth  guardians  who 
proposed  to  teach  pauper  children  how  to  realize 
the  war  by  denying  them  their  breakfast  egg  on 
Christmas  morning.  Still  another  when  "  A  Living 
Dean  "  described  conscription  as  "  a  step  towards 
the  higher  life "  ;  and  still  another  when  the 
editor  of  The  Spectator  preached  a  gospel  of  war 
as  a  "  biological  necessity."  Then  that  indignation 
which  is  a  holy  weapon  in  the  hands  of  the  satirist 
flashed  out  and  struck  without  mercy.  There  is  a 
poem  called  "  The  Survival  of  the  Fittest  "  which 
is  very  far  from  being  a  jest.  It  is  written  in 
386 


J .  C .  Squire 


memory  of  three  friends  dead  in  the  war  who  had 
"  clear  eyes,  strong  bodies  and  some  brains,"  and 
who 

Not  seeing  the  war  as  a  wise  elimination, 

Or  a  cleansing  purge  or  a  wholesome  exercise, 

Went  out  with  mingled  loathing  and  elation 
Only  because  there  towered  before  their  eyes 

England,  an  immemorial  crusader.  .  .   . 

Tompkins,  these  died.     What  need  is  there  to  mention 
Anything  more  ?     What  argument  could  give 

A  more  conclusive  proof  of  your  contention  ? 

Tompkins,  these  died,  and  men  like  you  still  live. 

The  anger  of  that  is  proportioned  to  the  insane 
pseudo-science  which  it  mocks,  and  to  grief  for 
irreparable  loss.  The  fierce  passage  of  the  war  has 
left  its  mark  on  this  verse  ;  and  though  the  poet 
survived,  it  killed  the  Jester.  It  would  have  been 
strange  if  that  merry  spirit  had  remained  the  same  : 

For  half  of  us  are  dead, 

And  half  have  lost  their  youth, 

And  our  hearts  are  scarred  by  many  griefs 

That  only  age  should  know. 

But  in  our  regret  for  the  passing  of  so  much  light- 
heartedness,  we  remember  that  it  is  but  a  part  of 
the  price  that  we  must  all  go  on  paying  till  we  die, 
and  that  yet  will  never  be  paid  in  full.  But  the 

387 


Contemporary    T^oets 

change  is  not  a  thing  to  dwell  upon.  Rather  one 
may  be  thankful  that  the  poet  survived  ;  and  that 
it  is  a  cause  for  thankfulness  may  be  seen  by  refer- 
ence to  a  volume  called  Poems:  First  Series,  pub- 
lished in  1918. 

This  book  contains  a  selection  from  the  serious 
verse  of  Mr  Squire  ;  and  comprises  those  pieces 
which,  as  he  expresses  it,  he  does  not  wish  to  destroy. 
It  is  a  modest  way  of  putting  it ;  but,  accepting  his 
own  delimitation,  there  is  still  enough  work  in 
which  to  watch  the  developing  of  a  poet  of  dis- 
tinction. And  the  point  of  'first  interest  is  that 
here,  in  poetry  of  a  completely  different  order  from 
that  which  we  have  been  considering,  there  are 
precisely  the  same  forces  at  work.  Leagues  of 
distance  separate  the  parodies  from,  let  us  say,  the 
"  Ode :  In  a  Restaurant  "  or  "  Antinomies  on  a 
Railway  Station  "  ;  yet  they  are  all  of  the  same 
essence.  They  are  all  of  the  substance  of  a  critical 
reaction  to  life.  In  the  gayer  work  the  mood  is 
lighter  because  the  criticism  is  relatively  superficial. 
It  is  a  matter  of  the  absurdity  of  Mr  Masefield's 
swear  words  or  Wordsworth's  banality.  And  even 
though  it  often  includes  much  more  than  that,  it 
is  still  by  comparison  floating  on  the  surface  of  the 
deep.  In  the  more  serious  work  the  critical  spirit 
sometimes  probes  questions  too  profound  for  answer, 
388 


J .  C .  Squire 

and  at  other  times  sends  its  inquisitive  beam  like 
the  sharp  ray  of  a  searchlight  into  regions  immensely 
dark.  So  it  is  in  "  The  Mind  of  Man,"  a  piece  of 
self-criticism  where  the  ray  travels  steadily  and 
mercilessly  through  foul  places  of  which  most  of 
us  refuse  to  admit  the  existence.  So  it  is,  again, 
in  "  Antinomies,"  when  in  that  sharp  light  the  poet 
sees  "  the  delusiveness  of  change  .  .  .  the  trans- 
parency of  form  "  and  watches  so  curiously  that  he 
sees  the  passing  of  Beauty  herself  : 

Flower  and  leaf  and  grass  and  tree, 
Doomed  barks  on  an  eternal  sea, 
Flit  phantom-like  as  transient  smoke. 
Beauty  herself  her  spell  has  broke, 
Beauty,  the  herald  and  the  lure, 
Her  message  told,  may  not  endure. 

But  Beauty  is  avenged  on  him  for  the  impiety  of 
that.  So  long  the  supreme  goddess  of  the  poets, 
she  will  not  yield  place  without  extorting  a  penalty. 
So  she  clips  his  wings  and  fetters  his  feet  whenever 
he  allows  the  challenging  intellect  to  take  pre- 
cedence of  her.  Thus  the  artist  who  has  had  a 
vision  of  something  beyond  Beauty  is  confounded  ; 
for  by  that  light  he  cannot  attain  even  to  Beauty 
herself.  He  gets  very  far,  however.  He  reaches  a 
clear  truth  of  thought  and  word  which  justly  ex- 
presses reality ;  and  he  presents  with  courage  the 

389 


Contemporary    Toets 

fruit  that  Reason  has  plucked,  no  matter  how  un- 
familiar or  unpalatable  it  may  be. 

Thus,  in  the  "  Ode :  In  a  Restaurant  "  he  forces 
himself  to  contemplate  the  human  scene  by  which 
he  is  surrounded,  and  to  explore  it  to  its  recesses. 
He  plucks  himself  from  a  mood  of  revulsion  en- 
gendered by  the  physical  aspect  of  the  spectacle — > 
its  greedy  feeding,  and  the  heat  and  noise — to  turn 
his  scrutiny  steadily  upon  human  needs,  and  to  pay 
his  tribute  of  homage  to  the  body.  He  thinks  of 
the  ceaseless  stream  of  life  flowing  through  these 
men  and  women  who  are  avidly  and  untidily  eating 
and  drinking  : 

The  confused,  glittering  armies  of  humankind, 

To  their  own  heroism  blind, 
Swarm  over  the  earth  to  build,  to  dig,  and  to  till, 
To  mould  and  compel  land  and  sea  to  their  will  .  .  . 

Whence  we  are  here  eating.  .  .  . 

So,  so  of  every  substance  you  see  around 

Might  a  tale  be  unwound 

Of  perils  passed,  of  adventurous  journeys  made 
In  man's  undying  and  stupendous  crusade. 

This  flower  of  man's  energies,  Trade, 
Brought  hither  to  hand  and  lip 
By  waggon,  train  or  ship, 
Each  atom  that  we  eat.  .  .  . 

39° 


J.  C .  Squire 

It  is  a  noble  idea,  not  inadequately  sung  ;  but 
it  is  not  deeply  felt.  Perhaps  its  nature  precludes 
that.  It  is  an  intellectual  conception  taking  shape 
in  reaction  from  a  mood  of  disgust  ;  and  is  an  apt 
example  of  the  kind  of  work  this  poet  does  when  he 
allows  intellect  to  overrule  him.  It  is  shapely, 
musical,  true  ;  but  it  is  not  the  real  thing.  The 
divine  spark  does  not  burn  in  it. 

One  must  hasten  to  say,  however,  that  this 
critical  faculty  is  not  always  allowed  to  dominate. 
Concentrated  thought  often  evoked  a  kindred 
emotion  ;  and  the  intellectual  passion  thus  lighted 
is  Apollo's  own  fire.  In  the  poem  called  "  Star- 
light," the  whole  process  may  be  seen  in  epitome, 
as  though  the  poet  had  deliberately  made  a  figure 
for  it — proceeding  from  the  arrogant  interrogatory 
to  the  sense  of  wondering  adoration,  with  its  ecstasy 
flashing  at  once  into  beautiful  form  : 

Grass  to  my  cheek  in  the  dewy  field, 
I  lay  quite  still  with  my  lips  sealed, 
And  the  pride  of  a  man  and  his  rigid  gaze 
Stalked  like  swords  on  heaven's  ways. 

But  through  a  sudden  gate  there  stole 
The  Universe  and  spread  in  my  soul ; 
Quick  went  my  breath  and  quick  my  heart, 
And  I  looked  at  the  stars  with  lips  apart. 

Mr  Squire's  most  beautiful  poems  are  those  in 

391 


Contemporary   *Poets 

which  there  has  been  this  fusion  of  thought  and 
feeling.  Because  the  fusion  was  complete  those 
poems  are  lovely  in  themselves,  and  are  to  be  en- 
joyed simply  for  their  beauty.  But  there  is  always 
a  charm  in  watching  the  germ  of  thought  out  of 
which  they  flowered  ;  and  in  observing  its  nature. 
It  is  often  metaphysical,  engaged  with  the  riddle 
of  the  Universe.  But  they  are  modern  meta- 
physics :  not  affiliated  to  any  school,  but  deeply 
individual.  Hence  we  find  "  A  Reasonable  Pro- 
testation "  stating  his  position  and  sealing  it  of  his 
own  time  : 

4 

This  autumn  of  time  in  which  we  dwell 

Is  not  an  age  of  revelations, 

Solid  as  once,  but  intimations 
That  touch  us  with  warm  misty  fingers 
Leaving  a  nameless  sense  that  lingers 
That  sight  is  blind  and  Time's  a  snare 
And  earth  less  solid  than  the  air.   .  .  . 

Again  one  sees  in  "  The  Three  Hills  "  the  idea 
of  change  and  impermanence  which  so  often  pre- 
occupies this  poet ;  but  the  glow  of  feeling  has 
wrought  it  into  a  lively  image.  The  three  hills 
have  been  ravaged  by  the  town-builder  until  they 
are  scarred  almost  beyond  recognition  ;  and  one 
of  them  is  imagined  speaking  to  the  others : 
392 


J.  C.  Squire 

11  Brothers,  we  stood  when  they  were  not, 

Ten  thousand  summers  past. 
Brothers,  when  they  are  clean  forgot 
We  shall  outlive  the  last. 

One  shall  die  and  one  shall  flee 

With  terror  in  his  train, 
And  earth  shall  eat  the  stones,  and  we 

Shall  be  alone  again." 

And  in  the  poem  called  "  Crepuscular "  the 
eternal  antagonism  of  matter  and  spirit  is  felt  in 
a  twilight  mood  of  melancholy  and  weariness. 
"  Mute  at  her  window  sits  the  soul "  regarding  the 
immensity  of  the  material  universe  : 

How  quell  this  vast  and  sleepless  giant, 
Calmly,  immortally  defiant : 

How  fell  him,  bind  him,  and  control 
With  a  silver  cord  and  a  golden  bowl  ? 

Sometimes,  moreover,  the  critical  and  reflective 
power  which  checks  the  creative  impulse  in  this 
work,  denying  to  it  any  large  measure  of  exuberance 
and  spontaneity,  is  completely  vanquished.  That 
is  when  a  great  emotion  strikes  directly  into  the 
mind  and  takes  complete  possession.  There  are 
examples  of  this  which  I  forbear  to  lay  hands  upon 
because  they  are  threnodies — "  On  a  Friend  Recently 
Dead,"  "  The  March,"  and  others.  But  there  is  an 

393 


Contemporary    'Poets 

instance  in  this  kind,  "  Artemis  Altera,"  with  which 
one  may  more  permissibly  take  liberties  : 

You  hate  contempt  and  love  not  laughter; 

With  your  sharp  spear  of  virgin  will 
You  harry  the  wicked  strong,  but  after, 

O  huntress  who  could  never  kill, 

Should  they  be  trodden  down  or  pierced, 
Swift,  swift  you  fly  with  burning  cheek 

To  place  your  beauty's  shield  reversed 
Above  the  vile  defenceless  weak  ! 

But  the  single,  untroubled  flame  of  that  is  in- 
frequent in  this  poetry.  More  often  a  diffused 
light  shines  here,  evoking  colour  in  softened  tones. 
The  subtlety  of  the  mind  through  which  it  passes  is 
reflected  everywhere,  even  in  its  prosody,  where 
intricacy  of  rhythm  and  rhyme  are  delicately  shaped 
to  express  it.  That  Mr  Squire  is  rapidly  gaining 
mastery  of  a  various  and  significant  beauty  of 
form  is  readily  seen  in  his  more  recent  work, 
notably  in  poems  such  as  "  A  House "  and 
"  The  Lily  of  Malud."  I  quote  a  stanza  from 
"  A  House "  to  illustrate  the  distinction  of  its 
metrical  scheme,  although  the  fidelity  with  which 
the  scheme  serves  the  mood  and  creates  its 
atmosphere  can  only  be  appreciated  in  the  poem 
as  a  whole  : 

394 


/.  C '.  Squire 


Darkness  and  stars  will  come,  and  long  the  night  will  be, 

Yet  imperturbable  that  house  will  rest, 
Avoiding  gallantly  the  stars'  chill  scrutiny, 

Ignoring  secrets  in  the  midnight's  breast. 

Lastly,  I  quote  from  the  closing  passage  of  "  The 
Lily  of  Malud,"  a  poem  which  tells  about  the  lily 
which  flowered  and  died  in  one  midnight  in  the 
heart  of  the  forest.  Absolute  beauty  is  created 
here  : 

Something  sorrowful  and  far,  something  sweet  and 

vaguely  seen, 

Like  an  early  evening  star  when  the  sky  is  pale  green, 
A  quiet  silver  tower  that  climbed  in  an  hour, 
Or  a  ghost  like  a  flower,  or  a  flower  like  a  queen. 
Something  holy  in  the  past  that  came  and  did  not  last. 


395 


Contemporary 
H^omen  Poets 


OVER  and  over  again,  in  those  weary  years 
of  the  War,  we  had  to  remind  ourselves 
(when  we  could  snatch  a  moment  to  think 
about  it  at  all)  that  great  literature  cannot  be  created 
in  times  of  stress. 

The  truth  came  home  most  sharply,  of  course,  to 
the  incurable  optimist ;  for  he,  forgetting  that 
violence  can  only  destroy,  went  peering  wistfully 
through  the  murk  for  some  great  epic  of  the  world- 
conflict.  But  it  did  not  appear,  and  it  gives  no 
sign  of  being  about  to  appear.  For  all  that  we  can 
see,  we  may  have  to  wait  years  before  that  chaos 
will  begin  to  shape  to  intelligible  features,  and 
before  it  will  be  possible  for  the  events  and 
passions  of  it  to  be  "  recollected  in  tranquillity  " 
by  the  poet.  Then,  if  the  right  mind  shall 
have  escaped  destruction,  we  may  hope  to  get 
genuine  poetry  of  the  war,  crystallizing  the 
essential  meaning  of  its  madness,  and  the  terrible 
beauty  of  its  heroism.  But  it  depends  at  last 
upon  the  right  mind ;  and  that,  too,  Ares  de- 
manded as  a  sacrifice.  One — he  who  seemed  to 
promise  a  range  of  genius  and  a  completeness  of 

396 


Women    'Poets 

humanity  greater  than  his  compeers — moulders  at 
Lemnos. 

Therefore,  since  poetry  requires  peace  and  leisure 
for  the  conditions  of  its  being,  we  have  no  right  to 
expect  the  appearance  of  supreme  work  even  now. 
We  cannot  fairly  look  for  it  at  any  time,  or  from 
any  society,  where  those  conditions  do  not  exist  ; 
and  the  World  War  has  but  given  place  to  dis- 
quieting industrial  conflict.  But  in  considering 
especially  the  work  of  women,  we  have  to  remember 
that  there  was  another  conflict  which,  for  the 
previous  ten  years  or  so,  had  made  poetical  work 
for  them  difficult  almost  to  impossibility. 

The  strife  that  I  refer  to  was,  of  course,  only  part 
of  the  general  agitation  of  the  modern  mind  which 
a  sharp  reawakening  had  caused.  But  it  roused 
woman  the  more  abruptly  as  she  had  been  more 
soundly  sleeping  ;  it  implicated  her  more  deeply 
because  she  had  so  much  lost  ground  to  recover  ; 
and  it  drove  her  to  an  activity  all  the  fiercer  because 
she  had  not  been  trained  in  the  gentle  art  of  com- 
promise. So,  while  there  are  both  men  and  women 
poets  who  have  been  stimulated  by  that  awakening 
(and  in  direct  proportion  as  they  are  alert  and 
responsive),  it  is  in  the  work  of  women  that  the 
effects  of  it  may  be  most  clearly  seen. 

That  is  not  to  assert  that  all  contemporary  women 

397 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

poets  are  making  poetry  of  the  new  kind.  Just  as 
there  are  men  who  seem  to  have  drifted  out  of  the 
current,  or  who  have  never  been  touched  by  it,  so 
there  are  also  women  who  have  remained  in  peace- 
ful back-waters.  Let  us  say  at  once,  that  from  their 
safe  anchorage,  out  of  their  serene  quietude,  they 
have  sent  the  sweeter  and  more  graceful  songs. 
They  have  achieved  a  completer  and  more  har- 
monious beauty,  dearer  far  to  ear  and  eye  because 
it  is  more  familiar. 

If,  therefore,  one  would  get  a  clear  view  of  what 
the  newer  poetry  is  and  means,  one  should  place 
side  by  side  with  this  more  regular  verse  certain 
contemporaries  who  are  working  in  a  directly  con- 
trasted manner.  On  the  one  hand  we  may  put 
those  women  who  have  not  gone  down  into  the 
fight  at  all ;  and  who,  for  any  sign  their  poetry 
gives,  are  not  even  aware  that  a  conflict  is  going  on. 
They  sing  simply  for  joy,  impelled  by  an  instinct 
to  render  into  visible  beauty  some  intimate  emotion. 
Hence  their  verse  has  the  primary  values  of  spon- 
taneity and  exuberance,  ease  and  grace.  It  is  quick, 
light,  musical ;  flowing  unfreighted  and  unimpeded 
by  the  careful  questions  of  modern  life. 

On  the  other  hand  we  must  place  the  women 
poets  who  are  actually  fighting.  They  are  engaged 
in  that  battle  of  ideas  which  is  agitating  the  awakened 

398 


Women    ^Poets 

mind  everywhere,  of  which  the  political  status  of 
women  is  but  one  phase  and  one  aspect.  And  if 
we  look  at  the  work  of  this  group  with  a  single  eye 
to  beauty,  if  we  judge  it  from  the  absolute  standard 
of  Art,  we  shall  declare  that  the  turmoil  has  had  an 
unhappy  influence  upon  it.  There  will  be  some- 
thing strange  to  us  in  this  verse  ;  something  almost 
harsh  in  its  music,  almost  halting  in  its  movement. 
And  the  unfamiliar  rhyme  and  rhythm  will  repel  us, 
unless  and  until  we  come  to  accept  them  as  the 
proper  garment  of  the  thought  which  this  poetry 
is  struggling  to  express. 

There  is  a  tiny  poem  by  a  member  of  this  group, 
Anna  Wickham,  which  is  apt  to  every  turn  of  the 
present  point,  so  I  quote  it  here.  It  is  called  "  The 
Singer,"  and  it  will  readily  be  seen  how  the  six 
small  lines,  while  summing  up  the  whole  case  for 
modern  poetry,  exactly  illustrate  at  the  same  time 
the  austerity  of  its  manner  : 

If  I  had  peace  to  sit  and  sing, 
Then  I  could  make  a  lovely  thing ; 
But  I  am  stung  with  goads  and  whips, 
So  I  build  songs  like  iron  ships. 

Let  it  be  something  for  my  song 
If  it  is  sometimes  swift  and  strong.1 

But  we  are  going  to  glance  first  at  the  work  of 

1  Anna  Wickham,  The  Contemplative  Quarry. 

399 


Contemporary    T^oets 

two  or  three  women  who  are  making  poetry  in  the 
old  style  ;  and  in  order  to  emphasize  the  difference, 
we  shall  select  from  them  only  their  poems  upon 
old  themes.  Such  themes,  however,  are  character- 
istic of  them  ;  and  thus  it  would  not  be  unfair  to 
take  Helen  Parry  Eden,  for  example,  as  representing 
motherhood ;  Anna  Bunston  (Mrs  de  Bary)  to 
stand  for  religion ;  and  Olive  Custance  as  the 
devotee  of  beauty. 

Here  the  poetic  spirit  is  brooding  upon  universal 
and  enduring  things,  such  as  are  a  constant  source 
of  its  inspiration,  and  which  may  be  found  prompt- 
ing the  specifically  '  modern  '  verse  as  well.  But 
they  are  more  frequent  in  this  verse  ;  and  they  are 
regarded  in  large,  clear  outline.  They  are  accepted 
implicitly,  in  the  contours  which  the  centuries  have 
shaped  and  the  colours  they  have  mellowed.  And 
the  essential  largeness  and  simplicity  of  the  theme 
have  been  matched  by  a  direct  and  simple  treat- 
ment only  possible  to  minds  which  are  untroubled 
by  the  cross-currents  of  contemporary  thought. 

Thus  we  might  gather,  from  Anna  Bunston, 
fair  flowers  of  the  old  faith.  In  her  book  called 
Songs  of  God  and  Man,  she  sees  a  snowdrop  as 
"  a  thought  of  God  "  : 

It  is  so  holy, 
And  yet  so  lowly. 
400 


Women    'Poets 

Would  you  enjoy 
Its  grace  and  dower 
And  not  destroy 
The  living  flower  ? 

Then  you  must,  please, 

Fall  on  your  knees. 


Looking  at  "  a  primrose  by  the  wayside,"  humility 
trembles  into  beauty  : 

Can  anything  so  fair  and  free 

Be  fashioned  out  of  clay  ? 
Then  God  may  yet  cull  flowers  from  me, 

Some  holy  summer  day. 

There  is  a  song  of  the  burden  of  life  : 

"  How  far  to  Calvary, 

And  when  shall  I  be  there, 
To  hang  my  bruised  body 

On  the  heavy  tree  I  bear  ? " 

"  Not  far  to  Calvary, 

The  pilgrimage  not  long, 
For  close  to  holy  cities 

Are  the  hills  of  human  wrong." 

The  Roman  Catholic  Church  has  always  been  the 
nursing  mother  of  devotional  poetry.  From  her 
ritual,  her  tradition,  her  mystery,  and  her  warm 
emotional  atmosphere,  the  religious  poet  draws  the 
natural  food  of  his  soul.  I  do  not  know  whether 
Mrs  de  Bary  is  a  Roman  Catholic,  but  one  has  only 

2  C  401 


Contemporary    *Poets 

to  recall  three  other  women  poets  of  our  own  time 
— Alice  Meynell  and  the  two  ladies  who  called  them- 
selves "  Michael  Field  "  —to  admit  the  truth  that 
the  Church  of  Rome  has  not  failed  in  this  age  for 
nurture  to  her  children.  All  their  work,  varied  in 
individual  character  though  it  is,  owns  its  parentage 
by  indubitable  signs,  not  of  outward  affiliation  only, 
but  of  graciousness  of  spirit  and  a  delicate  fervour 
of  adoration.  Thus  again  from  Anna  Bunston, 
in  "  Mingled  Wine,"  these  two  fragments.  The 
first  is  a  moment  of  happy  vision  : 

God  will  come  home  to  His  saints, 

Come  home  to  them  every  one, 
As  down  to  puddle,  and  pool,  and  blot 

Comes  home  the  infinite  sun. 

And  the  second  is  from  a  song  of  passionate  thanks- 
giving : 

For  strength  of  youth,  and  charity  of  age ; 
For  this  life's  myrrh  and  euphrasy, 
For  those  '  sublime  attractions  of  the  grave ' — 
Gloria  Tibi  Domine ! 

But  leaving  religion  now  for  the  second  of  these 
universal  themes  of  poetry,  we  shall  find  in  the  verse 
of  Olive  Custance  a  complete  devotion  to  beauty, 
and  no  other  concern  at  all.  Here  the  spirit  of 
poetry  drinks  the  loveliness  of  the  world  through 
every  sharpened  sense.  It  revels  in  light  and  colour 
402 


Women    ^Poets 

and  warmth.  But  that  mere  sensuous  delight  goes 
haunted  by  its  own  inescapable  shadow;  and  into 
these  bright  tapestries  dark  threads  have  crept. 
The  irresponsibility  of  Art  for  Art  draws  down 
Nemesis.  Lacking  a  soul,  there  is  here,  ultimately, 
not  beauty  at  all,  but  only  prettiness.  And  one 
soon  wearies  of  such  verse. 

There  are  brilliant  hues  in  this  poetry  ;  but  one 
sees  them  the  more  strikingly  through  the  author's 
more  sombre  moods.  There,  too,  we  shall  find  the 
prevailing  artist- joy  happily  making  picturesqueness 
out  of  its  own  sadness.  So  it  is  in  "  Grief  "  : 

Night  has  become  a  temple  for  my  tears  .  .  . 

The  moon  a  silver  shroud  for  my  despair, 
And  all  the  golden  forests  of  the  spheres 

Have  showered  their  splendours  on  me  leaf  by  leaf 
Till  men  that  meet  me  in  the  sunlight  stare 

To  see  the  shining  garment  of  my  grief! 

In  "  Life,"  again,  the  poet  is  clearly  taking  pleasure 
in  shaping  a  graceful  song  out  of  a  mood  of 
melancholy  : 

Sometimes  my  soul  is  as  fierce  and  mad 

As  a  winter  sea  : 
Sometimes  my  soul  is  brave  and  glad, 

And  the  hours  are  good  to  me, 
But  often  enough  it  is  tired  and  sad, 

Poor  waif  of  eternity. 

403 


Contemporary    'Poets 

Again,  from  the  Inn  of  Dreams  one  takes  "  The 
Autumn  Day "  for  its  pensive  sweetness,  where 
the  lines  are  touched  with  the  tenderness  of  a 
caress  : 

How  delicately  steps  the  autumn  day 
In  azure  cloak  and  gown  of  ashen  grey 
Over  the  level  country  that  I  love  .  .  . 

And  how  my  heart  that  all  sweet  things  beguile 
Goes  laughing  with  her  for  a  little  while  .  .  . 
And  then  turns  homeward  like  a  weary  dove. 

Sweetness  is,  indeed,  a  virtue  of  all  three  members 
of  this  group,  though  sometimes  it  becomes  almost 
a  fault  by  its  very  excess.  It  is  distilled  at  leisure, 
from  quiet  thoughts  and  pleasing  fancies  ;  and  it 
is  poured  out  in  a  ripple  of  rhythm  and  a  tinkle  of 
rhyme  which  quickly  captivate  the  ear. 

In  the  work  of  Helen  Parry  Eden,  however,  a 
more  bracing  element  has  been  added.  There  is  no 
vacuity  here,  where  a  soul  should  be  ;  but  there  is, 
especially  in  the  second  volume,  Coal  and  Candle- 
light, a  deep  sense  of  social  responsibility.  There 
is,  too,  a  tang  of  humour,  sign  of  a  vigilant  mental 
eye.  All  the  deep  and  tender  feeling  for  the  small 
child  who  is  enshrined  in  this  poetry  is  lightly  held 
in  check  ;  and  no  sentimentality  weakens  it.  The 
verse  trips  along  gaily,  in  its  own  very  individual  and 
attractive  measure,  smiling  at  the  self-imposed  curb, 
404 


Women    *Poets 

and  poking  gentle  fun  at  itself  in  quaint  and  homely 
phrasing. 

The  intensity  of  the  poetry  which  we  have  just 
been  considering  has  therefore  given  place  to  a 
more  refreshing  charm  :  a  piquancy  which  invites 
one  to  enjoy  its  gaiety,  while  hinting  all  the  time 
at  deeper  things.  A  good  example  of  this  will  be 
found  in  the  author's  first  volume,  entitled  Bread 
and  Circuses.  The  piece  is  called,  with  character- 
istic humour,  "  To  Betsey-Jane,  on  her  Desiring  to 
go  Incontinently  to  Heaven." 

My  Betsey- Jane,  it  would  not  do, 
For  what  would  Heaven  make  of  you  : 
A  little,  honey-loving  bear, 
Among  the  Blessed  Babies  there  ? 

Nor  do  you  dwell  with  us  in  vain 
Who  tumble  and  get  up  again 
And  try,  with  bruised  knees,  to  smile — 
Sweet,  you  are  blessed  all  the  while 

And  we  in  you  :  so  wait,  they'll  come 
To  take  your  hand  and  fetch  you  home, 
In  Heavenly  leaves  to  play  at  tents 
With  all  the  Holy  Innocents. 

Another  is  "  The  Third  Birthday,"  from  the  same 

volume  : 

Three  candles  had  her  cake, 
Which  now  are  burnt  away ; 

405 


Contemporary   'Poets 

We  wreathed  it  for  her  sake 
With  currant-leaves  and  bay 
And  the  last  graces 
Of  Michaelmas  Daisies 
Pluckt  on  a  misty  day. 

Three  candles  lit  her  state ; 

Dimmed  is  their  golden  reign — 

Leaves  on  an  empty  plate, 

Petals  and  tallow  stain ; 

Nor  will  she 

Nor  the  candles  three 

Ever  be  three  again. 

Perhaps  the  most  engaging  of  all  the  lyrics  in  this 
book  is  one  to  the  same  small  child,  called  "  A  Song 
in  a  Lane,"  from  which,  however,  I  must  quote 
only  the  last  stanza  : 

When  the  Wind  comes  up  the  lane 

And  you  go  down — 

Your  tresses,  for  a  gusty  space, 

Discover  all  your  merry  face 

And  the  Wind  drops  with  pinioned  grace 

To  kiss  the  small  white  forehead  place 

Above  your  summer  brown  ; — 

When  the  Wind  comes  up  the  lane 

And  you  go  down. 

While,  to  conclude  reluctantly  this  greedy  pilfering 
from  the  "  Betsey  "  poems,  I  cannot  refrain  from 
quoting  one  in  a  very  different  mood.  It  is  from 
406 


Women    'Poets 

the  author's  second  volume,  Coal  and,  Candlelight ; 
and  was  therefore  published  later  than  those  we 
have  already  considered.  The  date  is  indeed  sig- 
nificant, for  the  poem  was  written  at  the  beginning 
of  the  Great  War,  when  over  all  English  mothers 
and  children  hung  the  shadow  of  threatened  in- 
vasion. This  piece  is  called  "  The  Admonition — to 
Betsey  "  : 

Remember,  on  your  knees, 

The  men  vuho  guard  your  slumbers — 

And  guard  a  house  in  a  still  street 

Of  drifting  leaves  and  drifting  feet, 

A  deep  blue  window  where  below 

Lies  moonlight  on  the  roof  like  snow, 

A  clock  that  still  the  quarters  tells 

To  the  dove  that  roosts  beneath  the  bell's 

Grave  canopy  of  silent  brass 

Round  which  the  little  night  winds  pass 

Yet  stir  it  not  in  the  grey  steeple  j 

And  guard  all  small  and  drowsy  people 

Whom  gentlest  dusk  doth  disattire, 

Undressing  by  the  nursery  fire 

In  unperturbed  numbers 

On  this  side  of  the  seas — 

Remember,  on  your  knees, 

The  men  ivho  guard  your  slumbers. 

A  poem  like  that,  and  many  of  the  others  in  this 
second  volume,  is  essentially  of  our  time.     So  that 

407 


Contemporary    T*oets 

it  might  serve  as  a  link  between  the  older  manner 
and  the  new,  if  one  were  searching  for  some  arbitrary 
sign.:  But  that  is  not  of  our  purpose  for  the 
moment  :  and  we  turn  directly  from  the  general 
features  of  the  poetry  we  were  considering  earlier 
in  this  study  to  work  which  is  more  truly  repre- 
sentative of  our  time. 

It  is  like  going  out  from  a  warm  old  garden  to 
watch  the  dawn  from  a  breezy  hill.  The  prospect 
is  grey  and  cold  by  comparison.  You  may  be 
buffeted  by  the  wind  and  stung  by  showers  and 
wrapped  in  chilly  mist  long  before  the  sun  will  rise. 
And  perhaps  it  will  never  rise — for  you  ;  though 
that  depends  entirely  upon  the  state  of  your  own 
vision.  For,  however  veiled  by  storm-clouds,  there 
is  no  doubt  that  the  sun  is  coming.  It  may  be  seen, 
by  those  who  have  eyes  for  it,  in  the  work  of  a  dozen 
men  and  women  who  have  wakened  to  the  call 
of  the  Time-spirit.  Through  them  the  light  is 
struggling  ;  and  if  its  rays  are  sometimes  broken 
and  obscured,  that  is  all  the  surer  promise  of  a  fair 
day  to  follow. 

So,  in  our  pendant  group,  we  shall  put  three  of 
the  women  poets  who,  going  out  in  the  daybreak, 
have  girt  themselves  to  encounter  wind  and  weather. 
They  are  clad  in  homespun  and  shod  with  stout 
leather,  and  armed  with  the  austere  energy  of 
408 


Women   Toets 

morning.  Of  keen  sight  and  clear  brain  is  this 
modern  Muse :  alert  and  eager,  with  a  line  of 
thought  between  the  brows,  satire  and  sympathy 
chasing  quick  smiles  upon  the  lips,  indignation 
hastening  the  step,  a  hand  steady  and  strong  for 
service,  and  most  compassionate  eyes.  She  strides 
along  in  the  eastern  light,  young,  immature,  im- 
perfect ;  with  gravity  for  the  old  grace,  truth  for 
the  old  lures,  responsibility  for  the  old  sweetness, 
and  knowledge  for  the  old  illusions. 

No  wonder  that  the  unaccustomed  ear  is  startled 
at  this  music,  and  that  even  the  critical  person 
hardly  knows  what  to  make  of  it.  Listening  ever 
so  hopefully,  one  is  doubtful  at  first ;  and  even 
when  the  true  harmony  of  it  has  been  caught,  one 
finds  in  its  complexity  a  most  difficult  thing  to 
define.  For  it  is  not  possible  to  classify  this  poetry 
as — by  a  stretch — we  were  able  to  do  with  the  work 
of  our  first  group.  The  themes  in  themselves  are 
not  so  simple,  and  they  are  not  so  simply  handled. 
They  are  much  more  varied,  and  more  subtle ; 
introducing  aspects  of  life  which  are  new  subjects 
for  poetic  treatment,  and  questions  which  are 
freshly  agitating  the  modern  mind.  A  wider  range 
is  thus  taken  ;  but  at  the  same  time  there  is  a  closer 
hold  on  fact  and  a  closer  scrutiny  of  it.  Ideas, 
tentative  or  daring,  bring  a  challenge  to  old  forms 

409 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

and  ways  of  thought.  Conventional  technique 
goes  the  way  of  traditional  themes  ;  and  Beauty, 
suddenly  perceived  in  strange  places  and  things,  is 
evoked  in  forms  that  are  equally  strange. 

Only  a  starveling  singer  seeks 

The  stuff  of  songs  among  the  Greeks. 

We  are  outwearied  with  Persephone : 
Rather  than  her,  we'll  sing  Reality. 

Thus  Anna  Wickham,  in  her  Contemplative  Quarry ', 
puts  into  a  snatch  the  impulse  and  the  meaning  of  all 
this  poetry.  Two  principles  will  be  found  to  govern 
it.  It  is  a  revolt ;  but  it  is  also  a  new  allegiance.  It 
is  angrily  breaking  down  the  old  limits  and  the  old 
lies ;  but  it  is  building  with  equal  passion,  from 
Reality  thus  perceived,  a  new  Heaven  and  a  new 
Earth.  So  Anna  Wickham  again  : 

Thank  God  for  war  and  fire 

To  burn  the  silly  objects  of  desire, 

That  from  the  ruin  of  a  church  thrown  down 

We  see  God  clear  and  high  above  the  town. 

Who  will  dare  to  say  that  the  spirit  of  a  piece 
like  that  is  less  religious,  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
word,  than  that  of  the  poetry  at  which  we  were 
looking  a  minute  or  two  ago  ?  And  so  with  this, 
called  "  Sehnsucht  "  : 
410 


Women   'Poets 

Because  of  body's  hunger  are  we  born, 
And  by  contriving  hunger  are  we  fed ; 
Because  of  hunger  is  our  work  well  done, 
And  so  are  songs  well  sung,  and  things  well  said. 
Desire  and  longing  are  the  whips  of  God — 
God  save  us  all  from  death  when  we  are  fed. 

There  is  a  world  of  difference  between  the  in- 
tensity and  sweetness  of  that  other  verse  and  the 
keen  fire  of  this ;  a  difference  which  does  but 
measure,  of  course,  the  forward  leap  that  the  mind 
has  taken.  One  sign  of  the  distance  travelled  in 
this  subject  of  Religion  may  be  seen  in  "  Genu- 
flection "  ;  and  here,  as  elsewhere,  one  perceives 
that  the  mental  struggle  involved  in  attaining  to 
a  new  aspect  of  truth  has  had  an  influence  upon 
the  form  of  the  verse,  making  it  terse  and  incisive 
almost  to  .severity  : 

I  most  offend  my  Deity  when  I  kneel ; 
I  have  no  profit  from  repeated  prayers. 
I  know  the  law  too  perfect  and  too  real 
To  swerve  or  falter  for  my  small  affairs. 

There  is  the  same  profound  change  in  the  treat- 
ment of  the  theme  of  Motherhood.  Who  shall  say 
that  the  feeling  which  prompts  such  a  poem  as  "  To 
a  Young  Boy  "  is  less  deep  and  tender  because  it 
looks  so  resolutely  at  the  truth  of  human  imperfec- 
tion ?  I  am  sure  that  the  love  for  him  is  as  strong 

411 


Contemporary   'Poets 

as  that  for  Betsey-Jane.  Or,  on  the  question  of 
technique,  can  one  affirm  that  the  irregularity  of 
this  measure  is  not  suited  to  its  subject  equally 
with  the  grace  of  the  Betsey  lyrics  ? 

Poor  son  of  strife — 

Child  of  inequality  and  growth — 

You  "will  find  no  steady  virtue  : 

You  will  live  sometimes  with  holy  ecstasy,  sometimes 
with  shoddy  sin. 

You  will  keep  no  constant  faith, 

But  with  an  agony  of  faithful  longing  you  will  hate  a  lie. 

Feminist  questions,  narrowly  so  called,  do  not 
much  occupy  this  poetry  ;  but  that  does  not  mean 
that  the  larger  implications  of  the  Women's  Move- 
ment are  not  deeply  realized.  So  this  author, 
thinking  of  the  freedom  of  soul  which  cannot  be 
bartered  away  except  at  the  soul's  own  peril,  sings  : 

For  the  work  of  my  head  and  hands  I  will  be  paid, 
But  I  take  no  fee  to  be  wedded,  or  to  remain  a  maid. 

And  again  : 

We  ask  our  freedom.     In  good  sooth, 
We  only  ask  to  know  and  speak  the  truth. 

And,  thinking  of  the  artificiality  which  makes  the 
lives  of  many  women  a  mere  pretence  of  living  : 

412 


Women    T^oets 

Poor  body  that  was  crushed  in  stays 
Through  many  real-seeming  days, 
You  are  free  in  the  grave. 

Poor  bodies  crushed  in  stays, 
Think  of  the  rotting-days  ! 

Or,  of  the  need  to  brace  the  will  which  has  grown 
feeble  under  such  restraint : 

God  send  us  power  to  make  decision 
With  muscular,  clean,  fierce  precision. 

Sometimes  the  new  verse  does  treat  directly  of 
the  political  questions  involved  in  the  movement. 
There  is,  for  example,  a  poem  by  Eva  Gore  Booth 
in  The  Egyptian  Pillar,  the  theme  of  which  was 
suggested  by  a  great  meeting  of  women's  trades 
on  the  Embankment.  The  Prime  Minister  of  the 
day,  replying  to  the  franchise  deputation,  had 
exhorted  the  women  to  "  have  patience " ;  and 
the  poet  is  here  associating  his  words  with  the 
memories  of  old  wrong  suggested  by  the  pillar  of 
Cleopatra's  needle,  past  which  the  women  are 
marching  : 

Where  the  Egyptian  pillar — old,  so  old — 
With  mystery  fronts  the  open  English  sky, 

Bearing  the  yoke  of  those  who  heap  up  gold, 
The  sad-eyed  workers  pass  in  silence  by. 


Contemporary  *Poets 

Heavily  hewing  wood  and  drawing  water, 

These  have  been  patient  since  the  world  began — 

Patient  through  centuries  of  toil  and  slaughter, 
For  patience  is  the  ultimate  soul  of  man. 

Long  has  submission  played  a  traitor's  part — 

Oh  human  soul,  no  patience  any  more 
Shall  break  your  wings  and  harden  Pharaoh's  heart, 

And  keep  you  lingering  on  the  Red  Sea  shore. 

In   "  The   Street   Orator "   there  lives   a  literal 
record  of  the  fight  which  is  valuable  on  that  account  : 

At  Clitheroe  from  the  Market  Square 
I  saw  rose-lit  the  mountains  gleam, 

I  stood  before  the  people  there 
And  spake  as  in  a  dream. 

At  Oldham  of  the  many  mills 

The  weavers  are  of  gentle  mind  ; 

At  Haslingden  one  flouted  me, 
At  Burnley  all  the  folk  were  kind. 

Oh,  I  have  friends  at  Haslingden, 

And  many  a  friend  in  Hyde, 
But  'tis  at  little  Clitheroe 

That  I  would  fain  abide. 


One  is  glad  to  have  that  record,  for  the  quiet 
triumph  of  its  gentleness ;  just  as  one  welcomes  a 
piece  like  "  The  Good  Samaritan,"  revealing  the 


W'omen    "Poets 

synthetic  vision  which  can  see  events  in  their 
relation  to  the  larger  issue  ;  and  a  poetic  instinct 
to  embody  truth  in  a  familiar  allegory  : 

Robbed  and  wounded,  all  the  day 
The  great  cause  by  the  roadside  lay. 
The  Rich  and  Mighty  in  their  pride 
Passed  by  on  the  other  side. 
With  smiling  lips  indifferent 
On  their  way  the  statesmen  went. 
At  evening  in  the  sunset-flame 
Out  of  the  mill  the  winders  came ; 
She  who  with  four  great  looms  weaves 
Found  Justice  fallen  among  thieves, 
Stone-breakers  resting  from  their  toil 
Have  poured  out  wine  and  oil. 
The  miner  hurrying  from  the  mine 
Has  seen  a  flash  of  light  divine, 
And  every  tired  labourer 
Has  given  a  helping  hand  to  her. 

In  pieces  like  that,  which,  however,  are  rare 
examples,  the  poet  is  treating  a  single  definite  aspect 
of  modern  thought,  and  one  which  had  become 
familiar.  That  fact  in  itself  may  have  helped  her 
to  the  greater  smoothness  of  her  verse.  But  usually 
the  new  poetry  is  engaged  upon  ideas  which  are  not 
yet  in  common  circulation,  and  many  of  which  are 
the  subject  of  controversy.  It  would  be  possible, 
if  there  were  space  for  it,  to  illustrate  an  acute 

415 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

interest  in  and  original  thought  upon  such  provo- 
cative questions  as  the  penal  laws,  marriage,  the 
relation  between  the  sexes,  eugenics,  property, 
prostitution,  ethics,  or  the  conventions  of  our 
civilization — all  of  which  are  in  addition  to  the 
primary  things  which  in  the  past  have  completely 
absorbed  the  poet.  Those  primary  things  are  less 
prominent  now.  Love,  in  the  sense  of  romantic 
passion,  has  only  a  small  place  here  ;  but  comrade- 
ship is  honoured.  Sensuous  delight  ranks  second 
to  the  joy  of  mind  and  spirit.  And  always  there  is 
the  mental  honesty  which  will  not  cry  peace  when 
there  is  no  peace  ;  the  courage  to  take  up  arms  in 
a  just  cause,  and  generous  devotion  to  the  service 
of  humanity. 

In  the  volume  of  poems  by  Margaret  Maitland 
Radford,  which  is  the  most  recent  of  all  that  I 
have  quoted,  there  is  what  one  may  call — almost 
literally — the  last  word  of  the  poetic  spirit  as  it  is 
getting  itself  uttered  by  the  women  of  our  time. 
A  significant  fragment  from  her  lines  "  To  a 
Poet  "  will  indicate  over  again  the  modern  attitude 
to  Reality.  She  calls  the  poet  "  Night-watchman 
for  the  Truth,"  and  says : 

But  I  will  take  a  stone  up  from  the  dust 
And  give  it  thee.  .  .  . 
At  last,  oh  poet, — the  dust  is  starry  stuff. 
416 


"Poets 

And  another  fragment  from  "  Lovers  of  Men  "  puts 
into  a  symbol  the  spiritual  unrest  which  troubles  the 
heart  of  the  poet  of  our  day  : 

Alas  for  us,  who  know  we  are  but  lost 

Unless  we  run  the  streets  and  cry  out  as  in  wrath, 

"  Your  cold  is  not  kept  out  with  cloth — 

Wood  fires  can  never  melt  this  frost, 

Nor  will  this  bread  of  flour  appease  your  hunger  !  " 

Consider,  too,  the  compassion  born  of  larger 
knowledge  in  these  last  two  stanzas  of  "  To  a  Girl 
who  was  on  the  Streets/'  from  the  same  volume  : 

You  are  dying,  dying,  dear — 

You  knew  it  must  mean  this ; 
No  friend  will  come — there's  none  but  me 

To  give  you  your  last  kiss. 

Along  the  white  beds  now 

Comes  the  sad  morning  sun ; 
Man,  man,  what  hast  thou  done 

To  this  little  one  ? 

In  a  piece  like  that,  tenderness  conquers  the  diffi- 
culty which  is  inherent  in  a  theme  at  once  so  strange 
to  poetry,  and  so  frankly  handled.  But,  generally 
speaking,  this  difficult  newness  puts  the  modern 
poet  at  a  disadvantage,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
making  charming  verse.  And  no  effort  is  made 
merely  to  charm. 

2D  417 


Contemporary    'Poets 

Thus  contemporary  poetry — of  men  as  well  as 
women — appears  at  times  to  be  almost  raw  and 
crude.  And  when  to  this  is  added  the  sense  of 
struggle  against  customary  thinking ;  when,  too, 
the  poet  is  found  to  be  worshipping  a  new  ideal, 
exalting  reality  in  place  of  pleasant  illusions,  and 
Tightness  of  thought  in  place  of  fine  technique,  we 
shall  not  wonder  at  what  seems  irregular,  awkward, 
or  unfinished  in  this  verse. 

But  inasmuch  as  we  know  that  there  is  ultimately 
no  conflict  between  Truth  and  Beauty,  we  shall  look 
forward  to  the  time  when  the  new  thought,  growing 
deeper,  stronger,  and  more  comprehensive,  shall 
inevitably  find  perfect  expression.  Perhaps  the 
lines  which  follow,  also  from  Margaret  Radford's 
book,  may  give  us  leave  to  hope  that  we  are  already 
on  the  way  to  that  happy  goal : 

Run  to  my  heart :  I  know  the  worst  of  thee  ; 
For  each  scar  on  thy  soul,  the  soul  in  me 
Has  one  as  hot,  as  old ; 

How  many  leaves  whirled  down  in  last  night's  wind  ? 

How  many  young  have  sinned  ? 

I  am  as  wild  as  thee,  as  desperate,  as  weak — 

Come,  slip  down  to  my  heart, 

Though  the  tears  are  on  thy  cheek. 


418 


William  Butler  Yeats 

UNHAPPY  Ireland  is  at  least  happy  in  her 
laureate.     The  poet  of  dreams,  of  patriot- 
ism and  proud  humility,  of  old  legend  and 
song,  of  sweet  sorrow  and  bitter  joy,  of  a  land  and 
a  people  beyond  the  world — this  is  indeed  the  poet 
of  Ireland  ;    and  it  does  not  matter  if  no  hand  has 
ever   set  the  wreath  upon   his   brow,   for   he  was 
crowned  before  his  birth. 

The  fact  is  perhaps  too  obvious  and  too  seeming- 
simple,  that  W.  B.  Yeats  incarnates  the  poetic  spirit 
of  his  country.  Yet  to  the  lover  of  Ireland  there 
is  a  delight,  not  unmixed  with  irony,  in  contem- 
plating the  manner  of  the  incarnation  ;  while  to 
the  lover  of  poetry  there  appears  (and  the  more  the 
closer  he  looks)  a  sufficient  complexity  in  that  which 
had  seemed  so  simple.  For  the  spiritual  identity 
is  complete,  and  the  outward  likeness  so  close  that 
friend  and  foe  are  both  satisfied.  But  while  the 
one  will  tell  over  joyfully  the  features  of  resemblance, 
the  other  will  seize  precisely  those  points  and  make 
a  count  of  them  on  which  to  indict  the  whole 
race  of  Irishmen.  The  one  will  cry,  "  Behold  the 
dreamer,"  holding  that  word  to  be  the  highest ; 
and  in  the  meantime,  the  other,  holding  up  depre- 
cating hands,  mutters  in  a  very  different  sense — 

419 


Contemporary    T^oets 

"  Dreams !  Dreams !  Dreams !"  The  one  will  salute 
a  tentative  and  wavering  philosophy  for  the  very 
changefulness  which  is  its  growing  ;  and  the  other 
will  groan — "  Always,  always,  unstable  as  water." 
And  while  the  one  will  see  an  unregarding  and 
extravagant  spiritual  passion  as  the  austere  soul  of 
Ireland  herself,  that  enemy  will  fling  at  it  his  first 
and  last  reproach — "  Unpractical." 

But  the  enemy  is,  of  course,  a  Philistine,  and  one 
need  not  much  concern  oneself  with  him  and  his 
views,  except  as  an  ironic  spice.  It  is  certainly  with 
no  bid  for  his  favour  that  one  notes  first  of  all  a 
cardinal  fact  of  Mr  Yeats's  artistic  career,  in  that 
he  did,  at  the  outset,  deliberately  dedicate  himself 
to  his  country's  service.  Most  people  know  at  this 
time  of  day  that  he  has  laboured  for  upward  of 
twenty  years  in  the  re-birth  of  Irish  literature  ;  and 
they  do  not  therefore  need  to  be  told  that  all  his 
plays  are  to  be  judged,  as  he  himself  says,  "  as  part 
of  an  attempt  to  create  a  national  dramatic  litera- 
ture in  Ireland."  That  is  a  bit  of  literary  history 
which  will  one  day  be  national  history  too.  But 
so  that  there  might  be  no  doubt  about  the  matter, 
and  so  that  all  the  world  who  cared  might  know 
that  this  genius  which  is  Irish  in  fibre  and  essence 
was  solemnly  vowed  to  Ireland,  he  made  the  declara- 
tion in  a  poem  called  "  To  Ireland  in  the  Coming 
420 


William   Butler    Yeats 

Times."  There  is  a  passage  here  which  by  implica- 
tion sums  up  all  that  is  involved  in  that  inborn 
affinity  and  conscious  avowal,  giving  a  glimpse 
through  what  would  seem  to  be  the  welding  of  the 
two  into  "  a  beautiful  and  perfect  whole,"  down  to  a 
region  where  elements  too  complex  and  too  diverse 
for  fusion  are  at  war.  There  the  ancient  spirit  of 
poetry  which  is  his  birthright,  free  and  shy  and 
proud,  must  needs  rebel  against  that  more  careful 
modern  spirit  which  would  try  to  fetter  it  with  a 
purpose. 

Know,  that  I  would  accounted  be 
True  brother  of  that  company, 
Who  sang  to  sweeten  Ireland's  wrong, 
Ballad  and  story,  rann  and  song ; 
Nor  be  I  any  less  of  them, 
Because  the  red-rose-bordered  hem 
Of  her,  whose  history  began 
Before  God  made  the  angelic  clan, 
Trails  all  about  the  written  page. 

Once  more  the  enemy  would  provide  sauce  to 
our  reflection,  if  we  would  but  admit  him,  remind- 
ing us  of  what  was  to  happen  to  the  patriotic 
devotion  of  Mr»  Yeats  in  these  latter  days,  and  of 
a  verse  of  a  poem  written  in  1913  : 

Romantic  Ireland's  dead  and  gone. 

But  indeed  we  have  no  need  of  the  enemy  in  this 

421 


Contemporary    'Poets 

case,  for  the  poet  himself  has  served  us,  and  one 
has  only  to  turn  to  his  "  Ideas  of  Good  and  Evil  " 
for  an  ironical  commentary.  There  he  says  :  "  In 
my  heart  of  hearts  I  have  never  been  quite  certain 
that  one  should  be  more  than  an  artist,  that  even 
patriotism  is  more  than  an  impure  desire  in  an 
artist."  Of  course  :  one  might  have  known  it. 
Sober  purposefulness  must  needs  be  subdued  to 
that  other  beautiful  tyrant.  That  it  should  become 
conscious  at  all  in  such  a  poet  is  a  measure  of  its 
power,  and  the  indubitable  sign  of  the  spirit  of  the 
time  upon  him.  But  there,  in  his  own  words,  is 
enunciated  the  second  cardinal  fact  of  his  life's 
work — that  she  of  the  red-rose-bordered  hem  has 
triumphed,  and  that  it  is  in  laborious  service  of  her 
that  the  poet  has  served  his  country.  And  if  it 
should  be  objected  that  there  is  inconsistency  here, 
one  may  reply  first  in  a  paraphrase  of  Emerson, 
that  with  a  superficial  consistency  the  poet  has 
nothing  whatever  to  do  ;  and  then — that  the  Spirit 
of  Poetry  which  is  his  mistress  is  no  less  than  the 
Spirit  of  Ireland  too. 

It  follows  that  one  is  bound  first  to  think  of  Mr 
Yeats  as  the  patient  and  laborious  artist,  resolutely 
putting  aside  for  the  moment  the  image  of  his  work 
that  is  in  our  mind  as  of  a  thing  so  delicately  lovely 
that  it  must  have  quietly  grown  up  in  a  night, 
422 


William   Butler    Yeats 

fostered  by  moonbeams  and  dew.     Hear  his  own 
protest  against  any  silly  fancy  of  that  kind  : 

I  said,  "  A  line  will  take  us  hours  maybe; 
Yet  if  it  does  not  seem  a  moment's  thought, 
Our  stitching  and  unstitching  has  been  naught. 
Better  go  down  upon  your  marrow-bones 
And  scrub  a  kitchen  pavement,  or  break  stones 
Like  an  old  pauper,  in  all  kinds  of  weather, 
For  to  articulate  sweet  sounds  together 
Is  to  work  harder  than  all  these,  and  yet 
Be  thought  an  idler  by  the  noisy  set 
Of  bankers,  schoolmasters  and  clergymen 
The  martyrs  call  the  world." 

•  ••••• 

I  said,  "  It's  certain  there  is  no  fine  thing 
Since  Adam's  fall  but  needs  much  labouring." 

That  is  vigorous  enough  to  be  convincing,  in  all 
conscience  ;  and  incidentally  one  observes  that  it 
is  written  in  the  more  nervous  style  of  his  later 
satiric  mood.  One  hardly  need  produce  all  the 
other  evidence  to  "an  infinite  capacity  for  taking 
pains  " — which  is  just  as  well,  seeing  that  the  proofs 
would  demand  a  volume  to  themselves,  so  fast  do 
they  multiply  as  one  reads  essay  and  preface,  appen- 
dix and  revision.  Indeed,  one  begins  to  have  a  fear 
that  that  passion  for  polishing  has  become  a  malady  : 
that  no  line  he  has  ever  written  is  final  ;  and  that 
some  day  something  dreadful  may  happen  to  certain 

423 


Contemporary    'Poets 

perfect  lyrics.  It  might  be  advisable,  as  a  measure 
of  precaution,  to  remove  those  lyrics  to  a  place  of 
safety.  The  poet  would  resist,  of  course  ;  but  in 
that  event  force  would  certainly  be  justified,  since 
the  poems  of  which  I  am  thinking,  among  which 
are  "  The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree,"  "  Down  by  the 
Salley  Garden,"  and  "To  an  Isle  in  the  Water," 
are  no  longer  his  own.  They  are  the  personal 
possession  of  every  one  who  loves  them  ;  and  it  is 
all  very  well  for  Mr  Yeats  to  say  : 

The  friends  that  have  it  I  do  wrong 
Whenever  I  remake  a  song 
Should  know  what  issue  is  at  stake : 
It  is  myself  that  I  remake. 

But  there  is  a  point  beyond  which  one  refuses  to 
have  an  old  friend  remade. 

One  fact  may,  however,  be  noted  about  this  pro- 
cess of  refining  in  its  verbal  and  metrical  aspects. 
It  is  not  a  blind  impulse ;  but,  like  the  poet's 
instinct  for  selection,  it  has  been  strictly  directed 
along  a  certain  path.  He  has  tried  always,  even 
in  his  subtlest  effects,  to  attain  a  perfection  of 
simplicity  ;  and  he  has  chosen  his  material  almost 
invariably  from  national  legend  and  folk-lore.  The 
same  principle  is  at  work  in  the  making  of  his  plays  : 
native  themes  are  made  articulate  in  a  native  idiom. 
Even  in  his  love-songs — though  to  be  sure  there  is  a 
424 


William   Butler    Yeats 

sense  in  wliich  it  is  true  that  all  this  poet's  lyrical 
work  is  love  poetry — he  often  slips  on  the  singing 
robes  of  an  old  Irish  bard.  Thus  "  Aedh  Hears  the 
Cry  of  the  Sedge": 

I  wander  by  the  edge 

Of  this  desolate  lake 

Where  wind  cries  in  the  sedge  : 

Until  the  axle  break 

That  keeps  the  stars  in  their  round 

And  hands  hurl  in  the  deep 

The  banners  of  East  and  West 

And  the  girdle  of  light  is  unbound, 

ICour  head  'will  not  lie  by  the  breast 

Of  your  beloved  in  sleep. 

For  the  material  of  his  art  Mr  Yeats  is  constant 
in  acknowledging  his  debt  to  Lady  Gregory's  trans- 
lations of  Irish  myth  and  legend.  So  we  find  that 
the  one-act  play  in  blank  verse  called  On  Bailees 
Strand  is  a  tragedy  from  the  life  of  the  legendary 
hero  Cuchulain,  which  is  to  be  found  in  Lady 
Gregory's  Cuchulain  of  Muirthemne.  The  Golden 
Helmet,  another  play  about  Cuchulain,  in  which  this 
hero  beloved  of  gods  and  men  offers  up  his  life  for 
his  country,  is  based  on  stories  from  the  same  source 
to  which  the  poet  has  given  a  characteristic  turn. 
Deirdre  the  sorrowful,  who  is  Celtic  and  Irish 
in  her  very  essence,  also  comes  to  us  through 
Lady  Gregory.  The  Countess  Cathleen  was  found 

42S 


Contemporary    T^oets 

by  the  poet  in  a  book  of  Irish,  folk-lore  which 
had  been  translated  from  a  French  author,  who  in 
turn  had  gathered  the  tale  from  children  in  the 
streets  of  Cork  and  Dublin.  And  Cathleen  ni 
Houlihan,  that  supreme  symbol  of  the  old  and  ever- 
young  spirit  of  Ireland,  came  to  the  poet  quite 
literally  in  a  dream  ;  but  indeed  it  was  a  dream 
which  seems  to  be  an  ever-present  vision  before  the 
eyes  of  Irish  folk.  So  the  proud  and  pitiful  old 
woman,  mysteriously  wandering  the  country-side,  has 
come  to  rest  for  a  moment  by  the  peasant's  fireside  : 

OLD  WOMAN.  Sometimes  my  feet  are  tired  and  my  hands 
are  quiet ;  but  there  is  no  quiet  in  my  heart.  When 
the  people  see  me  quiet,  they  think  old  age  has  come 
on  me  and  that  all  the  stir  has  gone  out  of  me.  But 
when  the  trouble  is  on  me,  I  must  be  talking  to  my 
friends. 

BRIDGET.     What  was  it  put  you  wandering  ? 

OLD  WOMAN.     Too  many  strangers  in  the  house. 

BRIDGET.  Indeed  you  look  as  if  you'd  had  your  share  of 
trouble. 

OLD  WOMAN.     I  have  had  trouble  indeed. 

BRIDGET.     What  was  it  put  the  trouble  on  you  ? 

OLD  WOMAN.     My  land  that  was  taken  from  me. 

PETER.     Was  it  much  land  they  took  from  you  ? 

OLD  WOMAN.     My  four  beautiful  green  fields. 

No  doubt  this  choice  of  material,  which  is  legen- 
dary and  specifically  national,  is  to  a  great  extent 
426 


William   Butler  Yeats 

instinctive,  like  the  fastidiousness  which  never  is 
content,  but  must  persistently  alter  and  remake. 
This  is  a  backward-looking  mind,  which  loves  to 
dwell  in  regions  of  remote  time,  amongst  old  gods 
and  heroes.  But  again  one  comes  back  to  the  fact 
that  always,  whether  in  choosing  a  theme  or  in 
adorning  it,  a  deliberate  path  has  been  taken  to  a 
definite  goal.  In  one  place  Mr  Yeats  asks  himself  : 
"  How  can  I  make  my  work  mean  something  to 
vigorous  and  simple  men  ?  "  and  in  other  places  he 
tells  of  a  patient  effort  to  attune  his  poetic  instru- 
ment to  the  speech  of  Irish  country  folk.  The 
reward  of  that  is  coming,  and  is  already  promised 
in  the  comedy  scenes  of  his  later  plays.  And  the 
people  who  regret  that  his  lyrical  period  is  over 
may  at  least  take  heart  from  dialogue  which  is 
flexible,  racy,  and  telling.  For  if  spring  cannot  last 
for  ever  and  a  silence  must  fall  upon  the  bird-note 
at  high  summer-tide,  it  is  at  least  something  to  be 
thankful  for  that  the  music  of  humanity  is  beginning 
to  take  its  place.  In  that  progression  he  but  follows 
where  great  ones  have  gone  before  him,  when 
illusion  and  romance  have  faded  in  the  light  of 
noonday,  and  the  poet  has  been  compelled  to  regard 
with  a  keener  eye  a  larger,  more  urgent,  and  more 
crowded  world. 

With  that  future,  however,   except  as  a  happy 

427 


Contemporary    'Poets 

hope,  the  student  of  Mr.Yeats's  accomplished  work 
is  not  concerned.  He  has  to  do  with  a  romantic 
poet  and  a  self-conscious  artist  :  one  who  knows 
himself  so  well  that  he  is  quite  innocent  of  the  Saxon 
virtue  (or  is  it  a  vice  ?)  of  mock-modesty.  He  has 
taken  command  of  himself,  and  has  known  how  to 
follow  the  trend  of  his  temperament — following, 
but  at  the  same  time  directing,  with  absolute 
mastery.  It  has  been  called  a  pose,  this  attitude 
of  mind  so  tenderly  fostered  ;  but  so  far  from  being 
a  thing  artificial  or  alien,  it  is  but  insistence  on 
himself,  hardened  to  a  habit. 

Hence  the  mystical  quality  of  his  imagination  is 
given  free  rein  along  that  bridle-path.  It  finds 
constant  expression,  busying  itself  now  with  faery 
fancies,  now  with  an  idea  more  abstract  and  remote, 
now  with  some  aspect  of  unhappy  love.  It  gives 
an  austerity  to  all  his  work,  as  though  it  were 
steeped  in  moonlight  ;  so  that  even  his  love  poetry, 
shaken  with  passion  though  it  sometimes  is,  goes 
delicately  stepping  in  filmy  white  garments.  Not 
that  there  is  any  puritanical  denial  of  happiness  in 
it  ;  but  the  strident  sun  and  his  joy  of  life  never 
enter,  being  too  virile  and  too  fierce  for  this  pale 
region  that  is  dim  with  dreams  and  glimmering  with 
faery  feet.  The  music  of  that  sphere  would  chal- 
lenge too  loudly  the  sorrow  of  ancient  tragedy  and 
428 


William   Butler    Yeats 

the  twilight  peace  in  which  the  poet  sits  to  meditate 
upon  the  face  of  beauty. 

Red  Rose,  proud  Rose,  sad  Rose  of  all  my  days ! 

Come  near,  that  no  more  blinded  by  man's  fate, 
I  find  under  the  boughs  of  love  and  hate, 
In  all  poor  foolish  things  that  live  a  day, 
Eternal  beauty  wandering  on  her  way. 

The  'Rose'  poems  of  Mr- Yeats  are  the  itera- 
tion of  his  creed  :  his  act  of  adoration  at  the  shrine 
of  Beauty.  It  is  a  rite  to  which  he  returns  again 
and  again,  as  though  it  were  not  enough  to  worship 
the  goddess  in  "  dusty  deeds,"  having  given  his  life 
to  her  service,  but  that  he  must  go  apart  from  time 
to  time  to  contemplate  and  adore.  So  he  sings  to 
"The  Rose  of  Battle": 

Rose  of  all  Roses,  Rose  of  all  the  World  ! 

You,  too,  have  come  where  the  dim  tides  are  hurled 

Upon  the  wharves  of  sorrow,  and  heard  ring 

The  bell  that  calls  us  on ;  the  sweet  far  thing. 

Beauty  grown  sad  with  its  eternity 

Made  you  of  us,  and  of  the  dim  gray  sea. 

And  thus  to  "  The  Rose  of  Peace,"  when  Michael 
had  sheathed  his  sword  in  looking  upon  her  face  : 

And  God  would  bid  His  warfare  cease, 
Saying  all  things  were  well ; 
And  softly  make  a  rosy  peace, 
A  peace  of  Heaven  with  Hell. 

429 


Contemporary    'Poets 

So,  too,  he  sings  of  "  The  Rose  of  the  World  "  : 

Bow  down,  archangels,  in  your  dim  abode : 
Before  you  were,  or  any  hearts  to  beat, 
Weary  and  kind  one  lingered  by  His  seat ; 
He  made  the  world  to  be  a  grassy  road 
Before  her  wandering  feet. 

And  finally,  thinking  perhaps  of  death  and  its 
mystery,  and  of  how  all  ecstasy  and  striving  is 
stilled  at  last,  he  sings  "To  the  Secret  Rose" : 

Far-off,  most  secret,  and  inviolate  Rose, 
Enfold  me  in  my  hour  of  hours  ;  where  those 
Who  sought  thee  in  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
Or  in  the  wine-vat,  dwell  beyond  the  stir 
And  tumult  of  defeated  dreams  ;  and  deep 
Among  pale  eyelids,  heavy  with  the  sleep 
Men  have  named  beauty.  .  .  . 

There  is  no  need  to  analyse  the  peculiar  quality  of 
these  poems  in  order  to  feel  that  they  are  an  expres- 
sion of  what  this  poet  calls  the  Celtic  Spirit.  Now 
there  has  been  so  much  blether  about  the  word 
Celtic  that  one  is  almost  afraid  to  use  it.  Yet  it 
does  mean  something,  and  the  special  significance 
of  it,  defined  with  more  or  less  precision  by  Mr 
Yeats  himself  in  passages  up  and  down  his  works, 
is  just  that  which  one  inevitably  comes  back  to 
after  any  study  of  his  own  poetry.  It  is  a  sense  of 

430 


William   Butler    Yeats 

infinite  longing,  of  something  remote  and  unattain- 
able, of  wistfulness  and  melancholy,  of  a  sort  of 
homesickness  of  the  soul.  Of  that  spirit  his 
poetry  is  the  final  incarnation :  it  is  his  own 
realm,  and  there  he  is  king.  Perhaps  its  loveliest 
expression  is  "The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree";  and 
the  Tightness  of  the  poem,  its  faithful  echo  of  that 
spiritual  nostalgia,  have  been  tried  and  proved  by 
a  very  severe  test.  For  it  has  been  parodied  with 
great  cleverness,  and  remains  unscathed ;  and 
whether  one  regards  it  simply  as  the  lament  of  any 
exile  for  his  native  land,  or  calls  up  the  flock  of 
unhappy  associations  which  waits  upon  the  thought 
of  an  exile  from  Ireland  ;  whether  one  listens  a 
little  closer  for  "  the  very  inmost  voice  of  Celtic 
sadness  and  of  Celtic  longing  for  infinite  things," 
or  imagines  in  its  mournful  music  the  soul  of  all 
humanity  like  a  lost  child  crying,  it  remains  a 
supremely  beautiful  song. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 
And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles  made, 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the  honey  bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes  dropping 

slow, 
Dropping   from   the  veils    of   the   morning    to  where    the 

cricket  sings ; 

431 


Contemporary    'Poets 

There  midnight'*  all  a  glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple  glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

T  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and  day 
I  hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the  shore ; 
While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavements  gray, 
I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 


432 


Bibliography 


LASCELLES  ABERCROMBTE 

Interludes  and  Poems.     John  Lane.      1908. 

The    Sale    of  St    Thomas.     Published    by    the    Author. 

(Out  of  print.)     1911. 
Emblems  of  Love.     John  Lane.      1912. 
Deborah.     John  Lane.      1913* 

Contributions    to    New    Numbers,     February,    April, 
August,  December,  1914.     (Out  of  print.) 

EVA  GORE  BOOTH 

The    Three    Resurrections    and    The    Triumph   of  Maeve. 

Longmans.      1905. 
The  Agate  Lamp.     Longmans.      1912. 
The  Sorrowful  Princess.     Longmans.      1907. 
The  Egyptian  Pillar.      Maunsel.      1907. 
The  Perilous  Light.     Erskine  Macdonald.      1915* 

RUPERT  BROOKE 

Poems.     Sidg wick  &  Jackson.      1911. 

1914  and  Other  Poems.     Sidgwick  &  Jackson.      1915. 

Contributions  to  New  Numbers.     (See  ABERCROMBIE.) 

ANNA  BUNSTON  (Mrs  de  Bary) 

Mingled  Wine.     Longmans.      1909. 

Songs  of  God  and  Man.     Herbert  &  Daniel.      1912. 

ZE  433 


Contemporary    'Poets 

JOSEPH  CAMPBELL 

The  Mount ainy  Singer.      Maunsel.      1909. 

Irishry .     Maun  s  el .      1913. 

Earth  of  Cualann.     Maunsel .      1917. 

PADRAIC  COLUM     • 

Wild  Earth.     (Out  of  print.)      1907. 
Wild  Earth.     Maunsel.     1916.    (A  different  vol.  from 
the  preceding.) 

JAMES  COUSINS 

The  Quest.     Maunsel.      1906. 

Etain  the  Beloved.      Maunsel.      1912. 

Straight  and  Crooked.      Grant  Richards.      1915. 

OLIVE  CUSTANCE 

Rainbows.     John  Lane.      1902. 

The  Inn  of  Dreams.     John  Lane.      1 91 1. 

WILLIAM  H.  DAVIES 

The  Soul's  Destroyer.     Alston  Rivers.      1906. 
New  Poems.     Elkin  Mathews.      1907. 
Nature  Poems.      A.  C.  Fifield.      1908. 
Farewell  to  Poesy.     A.  C.  Fifield.      1910. 
Songs  of  Joy.     A.  C.  Fifield.      191 1. 
Foliage.     Elkin  Mathews.      1913. 
The  Bird  of  Paradise.     Methuen.      1914. 
Collected  Poems.      A.  C.  Fifield.      1916. 

434 


Bibliography 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 

Songs   of  Childhood.     Longmans.     (Out  of  print.) 

1902. 

Poems.     Murray.      1906. 
The  Listeners.     Constable.      1912. 
A  Chiles  Day.     Constable.      1912. 
Peacock  Pie.     Constable.      1913. 
Motley.     Constable.      1918. 

JOHN  DRINKWATER 

Cromivell.     David  Nutt.      1913. 
Poems  (1908  to  1914).     Sidgwick  &  Jackson. 
Olton  Pooh.     Sidgwick  &  Jackson.      1916. 
Abraham  Lincoln.     Sidgwick  &  Jackson,      1918. 
Loyalties.     Sidgwick  &  Jackson.      1919. 

HELEN  PARRY  EDEN 

Bread  and  Circuses.     John  Lane.      1914. 
Coal  and  Candlelight.     John  Lane.      1918. 

MICHAEL  FIELD  (Katharine  Bradley  and  Edith  Cooper) 

Calirrho'e    and    Fair    Rosamund.      J.     Baker    &    Son. 

1884. 

Canute  the  Great.      G.  Bell  &  Sons.      1887. 
Attila,  my  Attila  !     Elkin  Mathews.      1896. 
The  World  at  Auction.     Hacon  &  Ricketts.      1898. 
Poems  of  Adoration.     Sands  &  Co.      1899. 
Anna  Rulna.     David  Nutt.      1899. 

435 


Contemporary    *Poets 

MICHAEL  FIELD — continued 

Borgia.     Si dg wick  &  Jackson.      1905. 

Wild  Honey.     T.  Fisher  Unwin.     1908. 

Mystic  Trees.     Eveleigh  Nash.      1913. 

Deirdre.     Poetry  Bookshop.      1918. 

///  the  Name  of  Time.     Poetry  Bookshop.      1919. 

WILFRED  WILSON  GIBSON 

Urlyn    the    Harper    and     The     Queen's     Vigil.       Elkin 

Mathews  (Vigo  Cabinet  Series).      1900. 
On  the  Threshold.     Samurai  Press.      1907. 
The  Stonefolds.     Samurai  Press.      1907. 
The  Web  of  Life.     (Out  of  print.)      1908. 
Akra  the  Slave.     Elkin  Mathews.      1910. 
Daily  Bread.     Elkin  Mathews.      1910. 
Womenkind.      David    Nutt    (Pilgrim    Players    Series). 

IQII. 

Fires.     Elkin  Mathews.      1912. 
Borderlands.     Elkin  Mathews.      1914. 
Thoroughfares.     Elkin  Mathews.      1914. 
Battle.     Elkin  Mathews.      1915. 
Whin.     Macmillan.      1918. 

THOMAS  HARDY 

The  Dynasts.     Macmillan.      1910. 
Satires  of  Circumstance.     Macmillan.      1914. 
Moments  of  Vision.     Macmillan.      1917. 
Collected  Poems.     Macmillan.      1919. 

436 


Bibliography 

RALPH  HODGSON 

Eve.    "  At  the  Sign  of  Flying  Fame."     (Out  of  print.) 


The  Bull.     "  At  the  Sign  of  Flying  Fame."      1913. 
The  Mystery.     "  At  the  Sign  of  Flying  Fame."      1913. 
The  Song  of  Honour.     (Out  of  print.)      1913. 

(All  the  above  reissued  by  The  Poetry  Bookshop.) 
Poems.     Macmillan.      1917. 

FORD  MADOX  HUEFFER 

Collected  Poems.     Max  Goschen.      1914. 

ROSE  MACAULAY 

The  Tiuo  Blind  Countries.     Sidgwick  &  Jackson.      1914. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD 

Salt  Water  Ballads.     Grant  Richards.      1902.     (Out  of 

print.)     (Reprinted  by  Elkin  Mathews.)     1913. 
Ballads.     Elkin  Mathews.     (Out  of  print.)     1903. 
Ballads  and  Poems.      Elkin  Mathews.      1910. 
The  Everlasting  Mercy.     Sidgwick  &  Jackson.      1911. 
The  Widow   in   the  Bye-Street.      Sidgwick    $:  Jackson. 

1912. 

Dauber.     Wm.  Heinemann.      1913. 
Daffodil  Fields.     Wm.  Heinemann.      1913. 
Philip  the  King.     Wm.  Heinemann. 
The  Faithful.     Wm.  Heinemann. 
Lollingdon  Do-tuns.     Wm.  Heinemann.      1917. 

437 


Contemporary    'Poets 

ALICE  MILLIGAN 

Hero  Lays.      Maunsel.      1908. 

Sons  of  the  Sea  Kings.     M.  H.  Gill  &  Son.      1914. 

SUSAN  L.  MITCHELL 

The  Living  Chalice.     Mail  nsel  .      1913. 
Aids   to    the   Immortality   of  Certain    Persons   in    Ire/and. 
Maunsel. 


HAROLD  MONRO 

Judas.     Sampson  Low.      1908. 

Before  Daiun.      Constable.      19!  I. 

Children  of  Love.     Poetry  Bookshop.      1914. 

Trees.     Poetry  Bookshop.      IQI5* 

Strange  Meetings.     Poetry  Bookshop.      1917. 

SAROJINI  NAIDU 

The  Golden  Threshold.     Wm.  Heinemann.      1905. 
The  Bird  of  Time.     Wm.  Heinemann.      1912. 

SEUMAS  O'SULLIVAN 

Poems.     Maunsel.      1912. 

An  Epilogue.     Maunsel.      1914. 

The  Rosses.     Maunsel.      1918. 

JOHN  PRESLAND  (Mrs  Skelton) 

The  Marionettes.     T.  Fisher  Unwin.      1907. 

Joan  of  Arc.     Simpkin  Marshall.      1909. 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots.     Chatto  &  Windus.      1910. 

438 


Bibliography 

JOHN  PRESLAND — continued 

The  Deluge.     Chatto  &  Windus.      1911. 

Mamn.     Chatto  &  Windus.      1911. 

Marcus  Aurelius.     Chatto  &  Windus.      1912. 

Songs  of  Changing  Skies.      Chatto  &  Wind u s .      1913. 

Belisarws.     Chatto  &  Windus.      1913. 

King  Monmouth.     Chatto  &  Windus.      1916. 

Poems  of  London .     Chatto  &  Windus.      1918, 

MARGARET  MAITLAND  RADFORD 

Poems.     G.  Allen  &  Unwin.      1915. 

J.  C.  SQUIRE 

Imaginary  Speeches.     Stephen  Swift  &  Co.      1912. 
716*  Survival  of  the  Fittest.     G.  Allen  &  Unwin.     1916. 
Tricks  of  the  Trade.     Martin  Seeker.      1917. 
Poems.     (First  Series.)     Martin  Seeker.      1918. 

JAMES  STEPHENS 

Insurrections.     Maunsel.     (Out  of  print.)     1909. 
The  Hill  of  Vision.     Maunsel.      1912. 
Songs  from  the  Clay .     Macmillan.      1915. 
Green  Branches.     Maunsel.      1916. 
Reincarnations.     Macmillan.      1918. 

ANNA  WICKHAM 

The  Contemplative  Quarry.     Poetry  Bookshop.      1915. 
The  Man  'with  a  Hammer.     Grant  Richards.      1916. 

439 


Contemporary    ^Poets 

MRS  MARGARET  L.  WOODS 

Collected  Poems .     J oh n  Lane .      1914. 

W.  B.  YEATS 

Collected  Edition.     Shakespeare  Head  Press.      1908. 

Poems,     T.  Fisher  Unwin.      1912. 

Responsibilities.     Cuala  Press.      1914. 

Reveries  over  Childhood  and  Youth.     Cuala  Press.      1915. 

The  Wild  Swans  at  Coole.     Cuala  Press.      1917. 

ELLA  YOUNG 

Poems.     Tower  Press  Booklets.      1906. 

NOTE. — The  lists  do  not,  in  every  case,  include  all  the 
author's  works,  the  principal  object  being  to  give  the 
books  mentioned  in  the  studies. 


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